


Blemishes

by LinweMithrandir



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Angst, Domestic Fluff, Drama, Elongated One-Shot, F/M, Fluff, Humour, Romance, Sass, Silly, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 10:32:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 72,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2106393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinweMithrandir/pseuds/LinweMithrandir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christine is faced with a monstrosity she never thought she would have to factor into her life as the wife of a deformed, musical genius that lives five cellars beneath an opera house - and yet there it was: big, red, evil, and right in the middle of her left cheek. [Leroux-based "elongated one-shot"]</p>
<p></p><div class="center"></div>
            </blockquote>





	1. There it Was

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _In nature there is no blemish but the mind:_   
>  _none can be called deformed but the unkind_   
> 

She sat in front of the vanity, her big blue eyes piercing into the reflection of her face – staring, glowering, _glaring_. Even when she was an adolescent growing into the woman she was now, she had never been met with anything so atrocious before in her life (and she had been met with some pretty atrocious things in her time). How could it be? Twenty years of age and yet there it was – _glaring_ back at her. Christine moved her face closer, watching in abject horror as _it_ grew larger. She pressed a finger onto it, and made a terrified noise in the back of her throat.

"This is awful!" she cried, placing her head into her hands, "How could this happen?"

Had she not been cleaning her face enough? No, she made sure to wash it at least once a day. Had she put anything different on her face lately – some lotion, perhaps? Or a perfume? Erik _had_ gotten her a new perfume but it wasn't like she _lathered it_ on her face. She started to wonder if maybe she had done something wrong and was being punished because this _could not_ be happening – it simply _didn't_ happen, at least not to her. And yet when she raised her head to peer into the mirror one more time, there it was: big, red, evil, and right in the middle of her left cheek.

She sighed sadly as she poked it a few more times – in the entirety of her life she had only had four, maybe five, and she'd gotten them only at her most awkward stages and, frankly, they were short of nothing compared to being a gawky young girl with the elegance and grace of an overgrown, disproportionate bird.

"Well," Christine mumbled, "there is really nothing to be done about it." And though she knew she would just have to get over it (and probably stop prodding at it)… she began to realize that what was truly bothering her most, no matter how silly it seemed, was what _he_ would think. She was the pinnacle of perfection to him – everything about her spelled out flawlessness, what would he say about this new small, swollen flaw blemishing her usually smooth and immaculate cheek?

It had been over half a year since _that day_ : the day she had promised to be his wife. He had released the Persian (and her Raoul) but during the time they had nursed them back to health (or at least enough health that they could leave) she and Erik had had a proper wedding ceremony. It was in a small obscure church somewhere at the edge of Paris rather than the grand Madeleine cathedral nearby the Opéra Garnier Erik had enthused about before – Christine did not ask why he had the change in plans, though she was glad for the extra time to prepare on the way. No one had been there, only she and Erik, the priest (who had been so fearful of her fiancé and was so frail and old that Christine had been worried that he might keel over at any moment, thankfully however, he persevered), and a single altar boy. She recalled how young he was – perhaps ten or eleven – and how empty his eyes were. He had been blind. She had entertained the thought that if _she_ was blind, maybe she would have loved Erik without question. But even that little blind boy had been afraid of him simply because his superior had been... so maybe not.

She had expected everything to change after they were married – for Erik to begin overstepping the bounds that he was, by all legal means, allowed to overstep. But he had been just as reluctant to be close to her, only touching her if absolutely necessary (such as guiding her through the catacombs that he called home). She did not dare ask him why, she assumed perhaps he had forgotten or maybe he did not know, in any circumstance she was glad he didn't demand anything more of her than her company, he did not even kiss her as he had before – he would only stare at her sometimes, in such an intense and terrible manner. He would study every facet of her face, he would drink in every move she made, and he would gape at her as if he could not believe she existed at all let alone that she was really there in front of him. Sometimes he would ask her suddenly and sharply, "Are you there?" And she would furrow her brow and answer, "Yes."

It became clear to Christine that he needed to hear that every so often – that she was really there. Every time she reassured him, he seemed to relax and breathe again and she would only realize then how nervous and strung he had been before. She was not in love with her husband... as in, she did not think of spring and beautiful flowers and a quaint house on a hilltop with children running about when she looked at him. She could not picture their future, not like she had with Raoul. But Christine had accepted long ago that her amount of admiration and pity for him was so great that she could not find it within herself to fully hate him... and over the course of the last six months or so... she knew she loved him and had admitted as much to both herself _and_ him, even if it was an unsure and unfamiliar sort of love. He could be so frightening, with his powerful, hypnotic voice, his hot temper, and his _controlling_ demeanor.

She felt like a bird sometimes, clasped in the palm of his hand. He would look at her and think, "oh, what a pretty thing," and then he would squeeze. He did not understand how much it hurt when he squeezed, but the bird did and she would squirm and it would make him upset and worried and often he would hold her even tighter for fear the bird would fly away – and yet there was also a disturbing, mad part of him that grew excited when she squirmed because she was _alive_ and in _his_ hands. It was fascinating to own something _living_.

 _But he did not own her_. He couldn't. And Christine had been trying so hard to help him understand that. Help him realize how much better it was to let the bird _go_ and to have it sit on your shoulder willingly. To sing for you without any fear, to coo at you in true love and devotion. She had promised herself two months after wandering their home like a lifeless, apathetic ghost that she would begin to live again and she would try to love him as best as she could… she would try to teach him love… the biggest problem had been getting him to _let_ her.

The times when he was usually most willing was after he would take her outside and she would come back with him… with her beautiful hand on his arm and that sweet, heart-melting smile on her precious lips. It was right after one of those outings that she had kissed him for the first time since _that day_. It was on his jaw – she could not have reached his masked-face without him leaning down and she had wanted to do it so quickly and as a surprise… like a gift (it felt strange that something as simple as a kiss from her could be perceived as a gift). It was a chaste kiss, and she had bumped her nose rather hard against his mask, but she did not mind, she was simply glad she had been able to do it. But he had been so flustered and _happy_ , he cried a little but to her great relief did not wail or crumple into a fetal position on the floor; instead he patted her head in a rare show of unnecessary physical affection and told her she was a good wife to him and invited her to come listen to him play his violin (he had played a multitude of her favourites that night).

The first few months had been dreadful for him – for the both of them. It had been well enough in the beginning, but then she started to fall. She grew depressed and despondent, aware of how much she had lost and would never get back again. He had tried so hard to please her and then would turn quite cruel when she did not respond to anything… sometimes he would lock her away in her room or threaten not to feed her (he could never follow through), but she would only stare at the wall ahead, thinking of her Raoul, thinking of the life she could've known, thinking of her Papa, anything but the situation she was in. He would say horrible things and then he would beg her to say something, do anything – be angry if she needed to be, but she had to do _something_ or else he would go mad… he laughed at that, one of his horrifying cackles, and then he had sobbed apologies and implorations at her feet.

She would not kill herself, no matter how miserable, but she felt she had the right – every right to hate him, every right to turn from him, every right to shun him, every right to be numb. But she began to realize that it simply wasn't worth it. It wasn't worth his tears, it wasn't worth his pain. He was so sad all of the time. And she had _promised_ to be his _Living Wife_. But during their first 15 weeks of marriage she had been essentially _dead_. That was when she came out of her room one morning and asked him very softly if they could sing together. When they first married they had sung together every day, but during the last two weeks even he did not dare ask her for such a thing… not when she was soulless – it killed more than comforted him to hear her perfect voice while it was tarnished by her broken heart. So when _she_ had made the suggestion, he felt at odds between wary suspicion and absolute joy. Oh, but then he had heard her – her angelic, superlative voice earnest and breathing _emotion_ – and he could feel nothing more than bliss. And when they had finished singing, she had placed a hand on his own… he grew so bewildered by the action all he could do was stare at it.

"Erik," she said, "I am very sorry that I have not been… a good wife – your Living Wife. I have not kept my promise… but, allow me to try again, to be a true companion to you… to love you. I am so, so sorry, Erik. Can you ever forgive me?" She did not realize she had gotten so emotional, but there they were: _tears_ , beginning to gather in her eyes.

"It's just," she continued, "it's just so unfair to you! All of it is just so unfair. You just want to be happy! That's not so much to ask for, is it? Just a little happiness. Oh, poor Erik. My poor, unhappy Erik." And then she hugged the baffled man, it had been the first time she had ever hugged him and she wondered if this was the first time he had ever been hugged. His arms were held limply at his sides and he just gazed down at the top of her pretty head, nestled against his chest, and then he could not believe it when she had begun to tremble with sobs.

"Forgive me, Erik. I'm so sorry," she repeated, "please forgive me."

"Christine," he whispered, "Yes, Erik forgives you, he forgives his little wife." How could this angel, this divine creature want _his_ forgiveness when he had stolen so much from her? He'd felt utterly guilty that night, he could not compose and he could not sleep… he could do nothing. Thoughts had begun to swirl in his mind… thoughts that told him he did not deserve her and he should not have her and she could not stay here and that he was killing her but there were also thoughts that told him he needed her and could not breathe without her and that she had _promised_ and so she was _his_. He moaned in his conflict and shame, pulling at his thin hair and grasping at his horrible face, weeping throughout the entire night. When she had woken up she found him sleeping in the middle of the drawing room.

"Erik?" She had asked softly, coming closer, "are you alright?" But he did not answer. He was face-down on the carpet, his long limbs sprawled everywhere. For a moment she pondered over the possibility that he could be dead. Her heart clenched painfully. What would she do if he were dead? He couldn't be dead. Not when she had just decided to live for him. Not when she had decided to finally try to love him. And how would she escape? Would she be able to find her way out of the cellars or would she fall into one of his many traps – would the Siren find her and kill her when she tried to cross the lake? But amidst her sudden worrying, she saw a finger on his right hand give a light twitch. She gasped, dropping to her knees beside him.

"Erik?" She said again, cautiously placing a hand on his shoulder. He grunted and turned over, moving a hand beneath his face as a pillow and curling up tightly. _Sleeping_ , she realized. _He's sleeping_. She knew he had to at some point… she knew he _did_. She had seen the coffin bed; she had heard him speak of his dreams once or twice before. But to actually _see_ him sleeping (and in the middle of his living room no less) was bizarre indeed.

He seemed so peaceful… and he was so silent... like the dead. She recoiled at that thought. _No, I must not think such things_. Yet something still twisted in her stomach as she watched him – and she battled with herself to not see the monster but the man she had apologized to yesterday, the man that she had promised to love better. She could not love him if when she looked upon his still and _vulnerable_ form she thought about how such a sight was the sort of thing she would cry to her Papa at night over – worried that she might find it creeping underneath her bed or staring at her from her window. _It's only Erik_ , she reminded herself, _just Erik, asleep._ But he was so ugly that it could not even be called ugly. A part of her wanted desperately to be able to hate and fear him, then maybe things would make more sense... sometimes she felt like she was going mad. But it was not just for his grotesque features but for all of the terrible things he had done… the torture chamber he had in his _home_ and the traps he kept right outside of it and the people he had killed and the people he had _threatened_ to kill, and kidnapping her and forcing her to marry him and hurting her friends, how was she supposed to reconcile with that?

The answer was a frustrating one: there was really no other choice.

There was no turning back now. She had still been holding onto the dream that perhaps someone might save her – Raoul would come for her and take her away. But she knew now that it was hopeless… she had to find a new dream, and she prayed to God that Raoul would never do something so foolish, because who knew what Erik might do if he did? Christine sighed, leaning back to sit on her behind. She had to find the good things in her husband – if not in his face then at least in his dark and warped soul. That distortion was something that had been _made_ ; it could not have always been there… could it? And perhaps it was something that could be _unmade_.

She regarded him again, all closed into himself with his legs pulled up close to his abdomen. It made him seem so much smaller. _He's like a cat_ , she thought, _or a serpent... in either case, he must be very flexible_. He did not look unhappy as he slept, his face was expressionless… but it was not pained as it had been during the last couple of months. She couldn't bear the thought of waking him when she acknowledged that. So she left to retrieve some of her own blankets (she would not dare go into his morbid and sinister room) and a pillow. With as much care as she could muster she placed the pillow beneath his head, he did not stir, thankfully (she was afraid she may run if he had suddenly woken up). And then she draped two blankets over him, tucking him in and then leaving to make herself some breakfast.

He did not wake for another two hours and when he had he was extremely disoriented. Christine watched as his peculiar amber eyes drifted half-way open and then closed again, he stretched his long legs and then burrowed into the covers. She had struggled not to laugh at how incongruous it was for the fearsome, legendary _Opera Ghost_ to curl up into a ball and clutch at his blankets like a babe. In fact, it took biting the inside of her cheek not to. But nothing squelched her desire to laugh more than when his eyes snapped open and a crazed, unsettled look stole into them. He touched the blankets cautiously - furrowing nonexistent eyebrows and then glancing around for _her_. He himself could not tell if he was more relieved or irritated when he found her there, sitting on his sofa with a book in her hands as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

"Good morning." She said – he did not respond, instead he decided to take in his surroundings a second time. "I... I made you some breakfast... if you're hungry, that is." She got up slowly, placing down her novel and taking a step towards him. He stood up so fast she flinched and moved away, afraid that in this state he may do something rash.

"No," he finally answered, "no, I think I will retire to my room." She nodded, watching as he turned and quickly fled to his chamber. What he did for the next four hours, she had no clue. She could not hear music; she could not hear talking (which he did sometimes, he would have a mad sort of chatter with himself, she could never tell what he was saying when he did)… it was silent. And when he finally emerged from his dark and dismal dwelling, she was disheartened to see his face covered with one of his masks. He rarely wore them around her anymore, per her sincere request that he did not have to... but sometimes, when he felt particularly threatened or domineering he would don one once more.

"Good evening, Christine." He told her.

"Good evening, Erik." She replied, "you don't need – " she started, but he held up a hand.

"Music, my wife? Would you like some music?" And so he played her a piece on the piano. It was not as tortured as his _Don Juan Triumphant_ (he never played it in her presence again), but it was somber enough that it made her cry. The only thing that softened the blow of sadness was the _hope_ , as weak and watered as it was by despair. That hope was hers, she would foster it and nurture it, and she would cling to it with all her might...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, you read right, the beginning of this features Christine with a zit! How will it all play out? What will Erik think? What has happened over the past half a year? Well, my friends, you are going to find out! 
> 
> This started off as a very silly idea for a one-shot full of super random unplotted fluff but then it ended up growing into an over-20,000-word elongated one-shot full of super random fluff with a teeny (very teeny) bit of a semblance of a plot. And since it grew so long, I decided to break it up into chapters and polish each of them up and make it all nice and pretty and put a bow on top and offer it to you as a token of my undying love and affection.
> 
> It's essentially a bunch of cute Erik/Christine moments in a world where Erik does not (unfortunately or fortunately, who can say?) let Christine go after she promises to be his Living Wife and they have to learn how to live with one another and by live with one another, I mean be cute with one another. There are angsty moments - I want it to be semi-accurate and realistic (Erik's involved, there's no way for there not to be) but it will (hopefully) have a balance between the reality and the eventual adorable domesticity that will be Erik and Christine's life. I have a weakness for cute, what can I say?
> 
> I have this (originally) posted on [FF.Net](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10494470/1/Blemishes) (but I am transferring my stories to here).


	2. A Kringle in Time

It had taken him a whole week to remove the mask again. She hated it so much – she was not entirely sure what she had done to deserve it, but then… she knew exactly what it was. He could not stand being out of control. And it bothered him that she was this _uncontrollable_ variable that made _him_ even more uncontrollable than he already was. It had been such a vulnerable moment for him, and she had seen him… and she had helped him. And though he was grateful, he would be too proud to show it for a very long time. She had only been glad to be making any progress at all. The next month had been filled with awkward moments and carefully chosen words and curt talks - except for those peculiar instances, right before they would retire to bed. During those times they might have one or two real conversations. It was during such a time she asked him a question that had been bounding around in her mind for awhile.

"Erik, are you very flexible?"

"That... is a very unusual question."

"Well, it's just, when I found you… sleeping," she saw him watching her charily, "you were all… folded up, like a cat... well, more than a cat, it was like you didn't have any bones at all. It was odd; you looked so compact and… small – comfortable though…"

Erik was silent, mulling over her words before clearing his throat, "I told you once that I traveled with gypsies, didn't I?" At her nod he continued, "There are an insurmountable bunch of freaks and oddities amongst them, including a group of artists known as contortionists – have you ever heard of a contortionist, Christine?"

She pursed her lips, "I think."

He chuckled, "In any case, my dear, they are a particular sort of entertainer that can twist their limbs in abnormal and inhuman ways. I am, among other things, a contortionist."

"Ah..." It sounded somewhat distasteful, but then she was curious and she knew that he enjoyed showing off his many talents to her, "Can I have a demonstration?"

"I am not so sure if that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Some find it… objectionable; besides, you possess such a weak constitution, my dear. I would loathe for you to get sick."

"Oh, come now. It cannot be all that bad!" It sounded more like a question than a reassurance. Erik gave another dark chuckle at it and sighed.

"Alright, wife, I shall sate your curiosity." And then he'd done it. She had seen ballerinas do it before while preparing or playing around, but she couldn't help but admit that it was pretty disturbing to see _Erik_ doing it. He had one leg behind his head! But he wasn't done there, he stood, and leaned back until he was on all fours backwards, and twisted until he was peering at her from between his _own_ legs, his chin resting on his hands as he raised an absent eyebrow. She was amazed… if not also a bit sickened (like he had said she would be).

"That is… well… that is… quite extraordinary, Erik. Is it painful?"

"No."

"How curious! It, um, well, it certainly _looks_ painful. I could never do that, not in a million years."

"Anyone can do it," he told her as he untangled himself and stood once more, "it simply requires practice and training."

She felt a little guilty, feeling relieved at seeing him standing normally again – but he had looked like some sort of unnatural, evil, spidery creature all knotted up like that. "Did someone train you?"

"Of course not." He crossed his arms, " _I_ am simply built that way. But people built otherwise can still do it: it is a matter of will and patience."

"I would probably try and then end up getting stuck forever in a position like that; I would be a human kringle." He laughed then, but it wasn't like the sardonic chuckles from before – oh no, it was a beautiful, real laugh and she found herself smiling widely at him, feeling quite pleased with herself.

"I would not be surprised." She scoffed at his reply, gawking comically at him.

"Not to worry, of course, I would not leave you in such a hopeless state. Besides, it would be detrimental to sing in such a position – I would disentangle you." He continued.

"Oh, then I am glad to have you in case I need a disentangler." Christine could not believe they were actually playing with one another; it was wonderful… and so short-lived. He cleared his throat, his tone turning very grave.

"But Christine, I would ask you not to attempt such things – I would not want you to hurt yourself, not to mention that it would be terribly unladylike."

"If you say, Erik. And thank you for showing me and for laughing with me." She stood up then and enveloped him in one of her unexpected hugs, he rarely ever really responded to them, but sometimes his arms would very cautiously rest on her shoulders instead of at his sides, "I like your laugh when you are happy. I like it when you are happy."

He looked down at her in disbelief then, his eyes shining with blatant adoration. And then he did something quite unexpected himself. He touched her face, his gloved finger only barely brushing against her cheekbone.

"And when you laugh, Christine, it is as if you are breathing life into me; when _you_ are happy, I am allowed – if only they are few – some small fragments of true happiness. Do you know this?"

"Yes," she answered truthfully and for the first time he returned her embrace, holding her tightly to him.

"You are so wonderful, my wife, so dear to me. You cannot possibly know; you cannot fathom what you are to your Erik. You are so beautiful, the most beautiful thing to have ever existed and here you are, in this monster's arms… willingly. How is that, Christine? Tell me how is it? Does she love Erik, this beautiful thing? How could she? How could she love such a wretched, ugly monster? She does not belong here, this angel, this perfect divine being of light, she should not be here, and yet she is! She is here, in Erik's arms."

"You – " she began but he shook his head, resting his cheek on the top of her head.

"No, do not speak. Your husband is quite absurd, he says outlandish things sometimes. He will only be grateful to have you here, just let him hold you a while longer, he has never held anyone before… no one has ever let him."

Christine nodded, tightening her own grasp when he began to cry, and then even more when he started to pull away – she was sure he would retreat to his room again, staying there for hours and hours and then returning as emotionless and stoic as ever.

"Wait, Erik," she said, bringing him closer, "I care about you deeply, you are… my teacher and my… my husband. I do love you. I do not know if I love you as a wife should love her husband, but I want you to be happy, and I want you to laugh – I want you to be at peace. You are not... a monster..."

"Madness." He choked, "How could you love Erik? With his death's head and horrible dispositions, he knows he frightens you… it pains him so much to know." She cringed.

"I know, Erik," she began, looking up at him and meeting his eyes. They seemed so lost… so like a child, "I simply do love you, there is no way to explain it."

"Oh, I have made you as mad as I, I am sure of it. That is why, Christine. You have gone mad in this darkness. Oh, I am wretched! I have destroyed you – I have as good as murdered you! I should never have... Erik should never... I should let you go. If you want... if you want, you can leave, Christine. Erik will let you go, all you have to do is ask him. I am but a dog, Christine, willing to lay his life down at your feet, just ask him, Christine, my wife. Ask him."

"Do... do you want me to leave?"

"Yes! No! No, please, do not leave Erik, I beg of you do not do it, but ask me if you must, Christine! Ask me if you must!"

She thought for a moment, staring upon this broken man. It was too late to leave now, she was his wife, wasn't she? And he needed her, this poor, desolate thing needed her... didn't he? She placed careful fingers upon his face, searching his eyes and then reaffirming, "I am here to stay." Erik gasped at the contact of her soft hand on his cheek, fighting the urge to press it closer with his own and bestow kisses upon every inch of it. Instead all he permitted himself was to clutch her closer to him.

"I love you, Erik."

"But my face," he whined, " _Me._ There is much… that is wrong… with Erik, surely you must know this! You cannot be serious, you must be lying. I hate it when you lie! You do not love Erik. You will not stay. Erik has _murdered_ , Christine, he has killed… and he would do it again! He has been horrible, evil things. He _is_ evil. _I am evil._ "

She swallowed, feeling more nervous – realizing that he was right. There was a lot wrong with him. The fact that she was there was proof of that. But he needed her. And perhaps with love… perhaps he could change, perhaps he was _wrong._

"I do not care about your face, Erik, and though I will not dispute the fact that you _have done_ horrible, evil things – _you_ are not evil, I will not and cannot believe that. You are capable of as much good as anyone else, I know it – I have seen it. The fact that you just offered me my freedom is proof of it. And I love you, whether you choose to accept it or not. You _must_ accept it – accept my love for what it is." And then he'd finally managed to pull away and escape. He was gone for a whole day and when he returned, though he was not wearing his mask, he was even more reluctant than before to be near her. It had hurt her. But then, another week passed, and he relaxed again and he would not shrink from her hand on his or her head on his shoulder. It would take time, she realized, but he would grow used to it… used to being loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kringle (n.): a Nordic variety of the pretzel which arrived in Scandinavia (particularly in Denmark) in the 13th century via Roman Catholic monks.


	3. Kisses

They had grown much closer over the last six months. She had kissed him several times – many on his face and his jaw and his neck and his knuckles and two or three on his twisted lips, every kiss very careful and tender, and every kiss special. He would initiate hugs, but where kisses were involved, he would only gratefully accept what she had to offer. Sometimes he sighed and other times he cried and once he squeaked, but that had been because he seemed to possess a ticklish neck.

It had been a very ordinary day with Erik, if one can _have_ an ordinary day with one such as Erik. They had just finished lessons (Erik insisted on it, though he told her she would not be singing professionally for a time and that her voice was, in fact, perfection itself – but their lessons were arguably when they were most comfortable and in tune with one another, so Christine understood his desire to keep it in their routine). Every once and awhile after these times, Erik would play her a song or two on a number of any of his instruments – once he had played an odd oriental instrument called a sitar, it had produced the most delightful and exotic sounds she had ever heard. He played it fairly regularly after that. But this night he had decided on the piano – it was a new composition of his own that he told her he wished to play.

It was one of the sweetest, most magnificent pieces Christine had ever listened to. She found herself feeling as if she was floating, or flying, suspended in bliss. A soft smile hung on her lips and she glanced at Erik, who turned his head away (he must have been watching her – he would often do things like that, looking at her and then looking away when she noticed).

She got up to stand next to him, watching his hands flit over the keys with ease. They were ungloved – the thin, parchment-like skin stretched unnaturally tight over the bones. She could see every tendon and bone moving, and it was an equally strange and mesmerizing sight. She often liked to observe his hands, they were always cold as ice – sometimes she would take one and caress it and put it up to her cheek and rub it between her own hands in hopes of warming them up. They never did. She wondered why they were always so cold and asked him likewise about it, he said that he himself didn't know. They were soft hands though, his skin was very thin and dry but it was also smooth. She liked to trace the lines in his palms and press occasional kisses to his knuckles, noting how soft his hands were. She'd told him so and in response he'd actually taken to wearing gloves less often in the confines of their home.

She put her hands on his arms while he played – he tensed then and she kissed the top of his head, moving to massage his shoulders.

"Relax, Erik," she breathed, willing him to calm and resume playing. At last, his nervousness started to fade away, and he began to enjoy her kneading – a soft and content sigh left him and she kissed him once more on the side of his head.

"Christine, my wife," he stated, "I cannot play if you distract me with kisses."

She chuckled, "But you are so very kissable."

"And you are mad. Now listen and let me play."

"How rude, who knew you were capable of such bad manners?"

"Bad manners? _I_ am not the one distracting a musician from playing what he composed specifically _for_ me."

"No, but you are the one being rewarded for such an exquisite composition." She kissed his ear and he shuddered, her name slipping past his lips unbidden.

"What the devil has gotten into you?" He stopped and looked up at her. Their physical relationship was a delicate one – a cautious one. She did not feel ready for anything more than kisses and embraces, and was, to a degree, quite glad Erik didn't do anything more than hug her or caress her. She had asked him once, during a particularly awkward moment, why he never asked for anything more. Christine had been shocked to actually see him grow nervous and for his pale skin to _redden_. His hands started fidgeting (she would learn they often did this when he was anxious) and he began messing with any object within a five feet radius of him. She barely got another word out before he just up and left. They never spoke of it again.

She shrugged, wrapping her arms around his neck from behind and leaning down.

"If I did not know any better, Christine, I would say you are trying to seduce me." He held back a gasp as she kissed his jaw.

"What if I am?"

"Then you are playing a dangerous game." Christine could tell he was growing more uneasy and his voice was tinged with genuine irritability. She didn't want him to be angry with her.

"I'm sorry, Erik, I didn't mean to agitate you. I should have stopped when you asked me; the last thing I want is for you to be uncomfortable. I'm sorry." She stood up straight then, keeping her arms loosely around his neck.

"Why don't you keep playing?" She suggested sweetly, about to move away, but then he touched her hand and tugged at her little fingers, encouraging her to lean down once more. He looked into her eyes, searching for something and then turned his head to look at the piano. He placed his hands on the keys and glanced at her again.

"Only if _you_ keep playing." He closed his eyes and tilted his head towards her then, waiting expectantly for another kiss. She gave one on his forehead, eliciting another happy sigh. And then the music was playing again, his eyes still closed and his head still inclined to her. She placed a kiss on his cheek and then one on his temple and another on his jaw… and then… another just above the collar of his suit. She was startled when she heard the _squeal_ that came out of her husband's mouth.

"Erik?" she questioned. He cleared his throat and straightened his cravat.

"I think that is… quite enough for today. If you will excuse me."

"Wait, Erik, are you _ticklish_?"

"How absurd! You are absolutely ridiculous sometimes, Christine – almost to the point of lunacy. I feel rather exhausted now, so I bid you goodnight."

But she held him down and he let her (because Lord knows had he _really_ wanted to leave he certainly would've been gone by now).

"You _are_!"

"How should I know?" He growled and crossed his arms, "What happened to not wanting me to feel _uncomfortable_ , hm?"

"Oh, please," she said, "and what do you mean, 'how should I know?' Are you or aren't you?"

"Christine, it may shock you to know that I have not had many sociable interactions with other human beings – and further, though I am well acquainted with the _definition_ of ticklish, I myself have never experienced such a thing."

She gasped and held him close to her, "I'm sorry, Erik, sometimes I forget – "

"That I am a living corpse that dwells five cellars beneath an opera house? Yes, well, I do not."

"Hush. No, I mean, I forget that there is so much that you don't know. Sometimes I think you know everything – "

"You are correct in that assumption."

"No, I'm not. I mean have you ever had a snowball fight or played hide and seek or been lullabied to sleep or tickled to the point that you can't breathe?" He did not answer her, though he'd started to tentatively play with one of her golden curls. She'd worn her hair down that day – he always preferred her hair down.

"You haven't, have you? That's going to change, Erik – we are going to change that."

He guffawed, "Are we really?"

"Do you want to?"

"What?"

"Want to change that? Do you want to know what it's like? What it's like to do all those things? What it's like to be tickled?"

Erik's golden eyes locked on her own with that lost, childlike expression she adored and pitied. Christine felt him shrug beneath her.

"What is that supposed to mean?" She pressed.

He sighed and shrugged again, "Yes, of course I do, Christine. But it is very unfamiliar to me, I cannot promise to respond correctly or do things right."

"That's alright."

"But…"

"I will help you. Besides, it's not as hard as you are making it up to be."

"That is what _you_ think; you've known it all your life."

"For example," she began, imitating a tone he would often use with her when explaining something, "the reaction to being tickled is quite as simple as – " And then she poked him in the side causing him to give a rather pitiable yelp and nearly jump off the bench.

"I am not so sure how I feel about this _tickling_! It seems a nuisance more than anything else."

"Well, maybe for the ticklee, but for the _tickler_ , it can be quite fun."

"So I have gathered from your rather childish sniggering." She kissed his neck again and he twitched, but did not make a sound.

"It's not going to work, Christine." She kissed a second time, but still he held back. A third and he continued to be as steely as can be.

"Hah! You see, I have found a way to resist."

She pouted... and then smirked as a new idea came to mind. Her mouth closed over his neck again, but this time she blew air against it, causing a silly and fairly amusing (to her) trumpeting noise. He let out something that started as an exclamation and ended as some sort of strained and horrific giggle. She lifted her head as he strove to protect his poor neck, bringing his shoulder up to shield it.

"What on God's green earth was _that_?"

She ignored him, only smirking and putting two hands on her hips, "A _way to resist_ , huh?"

"Enough."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live and breathe for Awkward!Erik and Forward!Christine. You fluster dat boy, gurrrl.


	4. Tickles

She backed away when she saw the look in his eye – dark, devilish, and determined.

"And what about you, Christine? Are you… _ticklish_?" Christine's eyes grew wide as she took another step back and he moved from behind the bench. He smirked, grabbing her wrist and pulling her closer to him.

"Oh, no, my dear lady, you are not going anywhere until you answer my question."

She stared up at him, shaking her head, and forcing herself to not burst into giggles as she feigned terror.

"Not going to, I see? Well, I suppose that means only one thing: I shall just have to find out for myself." He wrapped an arm around her waist, trapping her against him while she struggled to get away.

"Squirming will do you no good; I am going to find out." He began scientifically prodding at her throat, hmph-ing when he got no reaction. A second try and still nothing. And so he moved to her side, poking and squeezing – she jumped a little at that, and he grinned maliciously.

"Ah hah!" But when he continued to tickle her there, she did no more than shrug.

"Unfortunately," she said before sighing, "Erik, I am afraid to tell you that I… am actually not ticklish."

"What?" He gaped, feeling totally and utterly cheated. "Well, why not?"

"It's just the way I was made."

"But _why_?"

"Because."

He watched her carefully for a moment, observing her breathing and her every moment… but then she gave it away. She tucked a strand behind her ear and glanced at her shoes. Erik had long ago discovered that this telltale sign usually indicated that Christine was keeping something from him.

"You are _lying_ , Christine. You tell me where you are ticklish right now or else."

"Or else what?" She crossed her arms.

"You _are_ lying! Tell me. Please, Christine, tell your Erik."

She bit her bottom lip and shook her head.

"Christine…" He warned, but then he was caught off guard by her suddenly jabbing him in side with her own finger and then darting away with a gleeful cackle. Of course, how could he resist running right after her? – a sense of thrill and _fun_ ran through his veins as he followed his wife through _their_ home. Giggling all the way she went for the hall and then ducked into her room, closing the door and locking it behind her. She knew that locking it would only slow him down for a moment – he was "the Trapdoor-Lover," after all – and so she set off to find a hiding place. She considered underneath the bed, in the restroom, behind the armoire – but then she settled for inside the closet. _Maybe_ , she thought _, if I am lucky he will look in the restroom and I can sneak past him and find somewhere else to hide._ She grew nervous when she heard him singing out her name – he sounded so close, as if he was right outside the room. At last, thankfully, she was in enough to shut the closet door, quite certain she was safe now. Or at least… so she thought.

The funny thing is that her husband truly _was_ the Trapdoor-Lover, and had, in fact, many trapdoors and secret passages within his home. One of which happening to lead to her closet. Erik knew precisely where she had gone – her room had been closer and she wouldn't dare go into _his_. Her scampering off into the closet… well, that had just been a delightful little plus. He slipped unseen and unheard through the passageway – it was really only large enough for one as thin as he to move through. He pulled the lever which opened the hidden door – it was deadly silent – and he struggled with not breaking into mad laughter as she failed to sense his presence; she had her pretty ear pressed to the closet door – listening for him, no doubt. He grinned mischievously, throwing his voice and calling out, "Christine! Where are you?" She shivered at the musical sound, gasping a little and backing up… but when she backed up, it wasn't into a wall or petticoats, and it grabbed her waist. She let out a scream and pulled at his hands.

"How did you even get in here?" She yelled while he was able to finally let out a barking laugh.

"Secrets, secrets, my dear Christine," he tsked in her ear, "I will tell you mine if you tell me yours." Erik's voice was a caress, all silky and warm; it made her want to tell him, to spill it all. But she would not give in so easily.

"Never."

"Have it your way!" He opened the closet door, keeping one arm tightly wound about her waist. He pressed on, pulling her into her room and then back into the drawing room. She wiggled and writhed, but he would not relinquish his death's grip on her. Not even when he sat on the couch! She was startled when Erik pulled her onto his lap with her legs draped over his own.

"About time we get to the bottom of this, no?"

"What are you going to do?" She asked, squirming some more.

"Quiet." He commanded, pushing her slightly off of him to get better access to her feet – she almost sighed with relief when he made them his target. He had been very close… _too_ close. But he would not figure it out. Only one person had ever known and that was her Papa – not even Mamma Valerius knew where her tickle spot was. He removed her slippers and began playing with her stocking-clad toes, sighing in frustration when she still did nothing.

"Where else could it be? Neck, ribs, feet… I have never heard of any other place for one to be ticklish – in all honesty, I had only just discovered today that a neck could be. This is truly unfair to your Erik, Christine, you must tell him."

She raised an eyebrow, "Must I?"

"It is only right."

"Is it now?"

He sighed and then began to lightly caress her left foot. She had not expected that. So much physical interaction today – it was not unwanted, but it was unfamiliar. His fingers were cold, but they felt lovely as they strode over her heel to the middle of her foot and when he rubbed his thumb over the pads beneath her toes.

"Tell me." He pleaded, pulling her back onto his lap and bringing his arm around her waist. He rested his head on her shoulder, running one finger down the middle of her foot before moving on to the right one. Christine sighed, putting her arms around his neck.

"Is this alright?" Erik suddenly asked, taking a pause in his hesitant ministrations.

"Yes," she answered.

"Splendid... you dashed away with such haste, I do hope you did not hurt yourself."

"I was fine. Though you gave me a bit of a fright in the closet. How did you get in there?"

He raised his head and shook it, giving her big toe a little tug.

"You shall never know until you tell me where you are ticklish."

"You are terribly mean."

"No more than you, my dear. How come you won't tell me?"

She thought for a moment and then shrugged, "Because I know you will use it against me."

"Yes, but you know that I am ticklish and where to tickle me, and you can use it against _me_ , so it is only _logical_ that you should tell me where _you_ are ticklish thereby making us even."

"There are two things wrong with this reasoning, Erik. One – we both know that I will be much more merciful with this knowledge; I fear that if you know my tickle spot you will tickle me all the time and I will surely die. And two – you already have so much you can use against me that my having this _one_ thing _already_ makes us even."

"Christine, tickling cannot _kill_ you."

"I meant it figuratively."

"And what do I have that I can use against you? You have far more than I, I do not think you realize how much power you hold in your pretty, little hands."

Unfortunately, Christine _did_ know how much power she held in her hands. She knew it the moment he had been willing to destroy thousands of people just for her to say, 'I do.' No one should ever have that amount of power... it frightened her.

"Well," she said, "you have your voice and your music and your magic – I can't do any of the magical things you can. You can do ventriloquism. But your voice, I think, Erik, you have such a beautiful voice. Sometimes, just certain ways that you _speak_... it will feel like my heart is in my throat and I can no longer breathe. And sometimes it's so enchanting... I feel tempted to do whatever it is you may ask. Do you know when you are speaking like that, Erik? Or is it just… there? Is it just the way you speak?"

He shrugged, but when he opened his mouth… he used the charming, breathtaking tone she had described, "I am sure I do not know what you mean, Christine."

"That!" She said, smacking his shoulder lightly, "you do it on purpose, don't you?"

"Sometimes, and do _not_ smack me."

"Why do you do it?"

He held her closer suddenly, brushing against her neck in almost a nuzzle and then speaking softly into her ear – it was not quite a whisper, "I relish making your heart flutter like a hummingbird's wings, when all that is on your mind is me and me alone." There was something so very intimate about the way he said that, it had made her a little nervous and he must have noticed because he moved away, loosening his grip though not letting her go.

"Forgive me, my dear, I should not have done that."

"See," she managed, nodding her head, "what is knowing your tickle spots compared to that?"

"Christine, I will have no more arguing on this – I am your _husband_ , you are my _wife_ , you _will_ tell me where you are ticklish."

"What's in it for me?"

"Anything. What do you want?"

She hummed contemplatively, resting her hands on his chest and playing with the lapel of his jacket. It was rather – though he would never admit it – distracting to Erik. These little touches – all of these small, precious things meant more to him than anything.

"A kiss," she finally said, not daring to look into his eyes, "from you." She was anxious for his reaction. It did not help that he took so long to answer and when he did, he sounded almost sad.

"A kiss?"

"You see, I…" She glanced up at him for a moment to catch his expression; he was as confused as she thought he may be, "I kiss you all the time, but you never kiss me. Which is alright, you have been very patient and careful with me, Erik. However, just this once," she stopped for a moment, "I would like a kiss from you."

"Christine, I…"

"Of course, if you do not want to, I understand. Like I said before, the last thing I want to do is make you feel uncomfortable. I mean it, Erik." It grew quiet then, and the longer the silence went on, the more embarrassed she felt about asking him such a question. It seemed like it was an alright thing to ask for, considering that she kissed him so often herself. But there _was_ something about _him_ kissing _her_ that was odd somehow – it was not that her kisses were not as important, it was only that his were a different sort of important.

"I'm sorry," she suddenly burst out, "I shouldn't have asked. I will think of something else for you to give me, if you still want to know where I am ticklish, that is."

He looked at her as if she was wearing a fish on her head then, "You really are very silly sometimes, Christine. I will kiss you, if that is what you want, even if I haven't the slightest idea why you would."

"Because… well, I…" He watched her expectantly, unwilling to stop her process of thought, "I like you and I want to be… "

"What?"

"I suppose... wanted… I want to feel wanted by you."

"You mean to tell me you do not feel wanted by me, Christine?"

"No," she sighed, "I do feel wanted by you... I would simply like a kiss."

"You would _simply_ like a kiss?"

"What is so hard to understand? Don't _you_ like it when _I_ kiss _you_?"

"Oh, yes." He sounded so much like a child in that instant, nodding his head.

"So why wouldn't _I_ like it if _you_ kissed _me_?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"No, what is?"

"Erik is nothing less than a monster. No woman should want to be kissed by a monster."

"I do."

"Christine..."

"You kissed me before." She was referencing _that day_ , when he had come back to her and had kissed her on her forehead. He still remembered it – remembered it like it was yesterday.

"Yes." His eyes flickered to that spot on her forehead, remembering how his lips had touched that smooth, perfect surface.

"So do it again."

He held her gaze then, firmly stating a determined, "I will."

"Alright, go on."

"But only after you tell me where you are ticklish."

She narrowed her eyes at him, feeling suspicious and distrusting, "You _promise_ you will kiss me?"

"Don't you trust your husband, Christine?"

"Do you _promise_?"

He huffed, "I _promise_ ," he said, putting as much emphasis as she did, "now out with it. It's not your neck, not your belly, not your toes. What is it?"

"I am not ticklish anywhere…"

" _Except_?"

"Except for my knees."

"Your _knees_?"

Christine nodded fervently, "Sort of, right above my knees to be exact."

"How ever does that work?" He asked, poking at the knee closest to him.

"Like this." She grabbed his knee and squeezed – and indeed, he knew what she meant then. He could have practically launched her into the air with how much his leg had jolted in reaction. He grabbed her hand and looked at her very severely.

"Do not do that _ever_ again."

She giggled, "You asked."

"Not for a demonstration."

She shrugged, "But now you know."

"Right," he said, leaning closer to her, his eyes suddenly glinting impishly, "now I know."

"Right…" She grew very aware of the pale, cold hand moving to close over her knee. But before he could do anything she was already laughing from nervousness.

"I am not even tickling you yet, Christine."

"Well, if you are going to do it, then do it!"

He lightly patted the side of her leg then before wrapping both arms around her waist and hugging her, "No, my little wife, I think I will wait… for the moment you least expect it." Her eyes grew wide and she whimpered.

"Oh no."

"Oh yes. The suspense should be quite fun."

"Maybe for _you_."

"Most certainly for me."

But she relaxed then, in his hold, memorizing his skeletal frame against her. She decided it was very nice to be hugged by him. After what seemed to be about half an hour, she felt a pressure against her temple… as light as a feather and soft as air. He'd kissed her. She remembered falling asleep not too long after that and then waking tucked up in her bed in the clothes from yesterday. For once, after one of their more emotional moments, Erik did not lock himself up in his room. He was there eagerly waiting for her with some breakfast and an offer to have a morning stroll.


	5. Fire and Light

Only two weeks later, they had their first real kiss. Erik had been very irritable all day, and she had been so confused – wondering if she'd done something wrong. But when Christine asked him, he only shrugged her questions off, snapping at her to leave him alone. She had nodded and obeyed, going off to work on some stitching, but sighing throughout. She learned later that he had had a meeting with his friend, the Persian, who had asked him some very… unpleasant things as to her wellbeing. Apparently, he wondered if Christine was even still alive. He then learned that the Persian was planning on visiting them sometime soon to make certain that everything was as it should be (meaning, that no one was being held against their will or anything of the like). Erik had threatened to kill his friend, but he confided to Christine that he had actually not felt able to kill anyone for a while now. She'd cooed and petted his head and held him then as they sat on the sofa.

"It'll be alright, Erik, you'll see. He will visit and he will see how happy we are and how happy I am, and then he will leave… or maybe sometimes he can visit us again, since you are friends."

"He is not my friend; he is an annoying little fly that buzzes about my business whenever he pleases and thinks he can get away with it."

"Well, maybe sometimes he can visit us again, since he is your fly." He had chuckled at that before growing somber.

"I am afraid, Christine."

"Of what?"

"Of what he may tell you, what he may say… what if he turns you against me? If you leave, Christine, I will perish, I do not doubt it."

"You mustn't say things like that. Nothing could turn me against you. I know you have done many bad things, Erik, but we all have. We've all made mistakes, but that does not mean that _we_ are a mistake." He chuckled again, but this time it was not so pleasant.

"I believe that is where you are wrong, my wife. I am most certainly a mistake. Born deceased in my mother's womb and forced to live this half-life."

"Look at me, Erik." She demanded, pushing on his shoulders slightly so he would sit upright. He did as he was told, gazing into her perfect face.

"You are _not_ a mistake. Do not speak like that ever again. That is my friend – my _husband_ – my very good, brilliant husband you speak of. And I will have _no one_ talk of him in such a disrespectful manner, even himself. Do you understand me?" He said nothing, only stared at her.

She put both of her hands on his face, caressing the sharp contours with her little fingers before repeating, "Do you understand me?"

He began crying then and at her gesture, placed his head upon her shoulder once more.

"How can you be so kind to me?"

"Because I love you."

"Like a wife should love her husband?"

"… I would not know, Erik. I have never been married before. I do love you though."

"But you have loved before... you loved _him_ , you loved the boy. You still do."

"It's not the same. I... I did not love him the same way I love you."

"How did you love him, then?"

"... do you really want to know?"

"Yes."

"I - I don't know. My love for him... was a gentle love, a soft love - like the sort of love that pours out of a stained-glass window in a chapel when it's very bright and beautiful outside."

"And your love for me?" It was a genuine question, there was no hint of animosity or sarcasm.

"My love for you, Erik... is overwhelming and... it... it is like fire. And I know it has the power to destroy life or give life. It can warm a home or it can burn it down. It is a very consuming love. I do not understand it. It is a frightening thing. It scares me."

"I scare you."

"Not so much now."

"But your love for me does?"

"It doesn't matter, does it? Not so long as I _do_ love you, and I do. Like I said once before… just accept my love for what it is. And, no matter what it is, fire or light... it _is_ a strong love. I love you as if you were my own, as if you were my flesh and blood."

"Ah, you love me as a brother."

"No!" She said, "No, I cannot love you as a brother."

"That is well, for I most certainly do not love you as a sister."

"Oh, I know that, Erik. But no, I don't love you as a brother. Nor as a father or son or anything of the like. But I do love you as if you were a part of me. It's like Adam and Eve, Erik. When God made Eve out of Adam, I feel like you are my Adam… and I must love you. I simply must. You have done terrible things, Erik." He nodded solemnly, "But I have grown to love you and I will always love you."

"Do you ever hate me?"

"Sometimes. That's part of what makes my love for you so confusing. I never hated R – _him_ , I only ever loved him. But with you I am always confused, there are times when I want to smack you," he made some sort of snorting sound at that, "and there are times when I want to kiss you," he hummed, "and there are times when I want to run away," he stiffened, "and then there are times when I feel like I could not live without you." He was quiet for a moment, enjoying the feel and sound of her breathing... letting it calm and center him.

"Sometimes, Christine..." he said at last, "I hate you, too."

"You do?" She asked, her eyes widening.

"You can be quite pesky and nosy," he started messing with a bit of string that was loose on the side of her dress. He really was like a child sometimes – so fascinated or easily distracted, "and sometimes, Christine, you do ridiculous things. Such as when you try to do the dishes, do you not know I long to do those things for you? I do love you so."

"Well, yes, but I am a grown woman, Erik – I can do those things myself."

"But I would much rather do them for you. I want to make you happy. Sometimes, you are quite sad, and I know you are thinking of up there, of that world I have stolen you from. It makes me hate you, when you are sad and only dreaming of that world. I know I should not. When do you hate me?"

"When you are domineering, when you try to control me, when you do not trust me… and when you are hateful to yourself."

"Sometimes you like it when I am domineering."

"No, I don't, Erik."

"I know you do, Christine. That is why you are such a good student. You like to be told what to do."

"Not always, Erik. And I do not like being _bullied_. That is what I mean by domineering – when you bully me."

"Erik does not bully you."

"Yes, you do – like when I ask you if we can go outside and you say no and I ask why and you say, 'because I said so,' and then tell me to go do something else with my time – you can't just tell someone that, you have to talk to them, you have to be courteous and at least explain _why_."

"But you are my wife."

"Exactly, your _wife_. Not a _pet_ that you can choose to take out on a walk whenever _you_ feel like it. I am a human being, Erik, and human beings require independence."

He mumbled something, finally taking the piece of string and carefully ripping it off her dress.

" _You_ would not like being caged up, would you?"

"What makes you think I'm not, my Christine?"

Christine thought on that for a moment and realized he was – or at least he truly felt like he was. His face was his prison. And one that he would never escape from. She sighed, and nodded.

"No more talk of what we do not like, I love you in spite of those things. You know what I love about you?"

He rubbed over the spot where the strand had been and then looked up at her – she was becoming increasingly aware of how intimate the position they were in was.

"No."

"When you are like this… when you are sweet and calm, when you let me talk, when you don't take offense to what I'm saying, when you listen. I am very grateful when you do this for me."

"It is because I am exhausted, wife. I do not have enough strength to take offense."

"You do, you could probably get very worked up if you chose to."

"But I do not."

"You do not."

"I never did say thank you, it was very rude of me."

"Thank you for what?"

"For giving me your blankets when I had fallen asleep."

"Oh… that seems so long ago, Erik. Centuries almost. You are welcome. It was a sweet moment for me, you were so peaceful. Kind of adorable, now that I think back on it."

He cocked an nonexistent eyebrow.

"Don't look at me like that, it's true. You were all snug and serene; makes me want to give you a big hug."

"You can do that. And _I_ can hug _you,_ " at these words he wove his arms around her, ecstatic when she returned the embrace, "I rather enjoy hugging you. You are so soft and nice to hug." She blushed at his words, nodding.

"You give wonderful hugs, I always feel warm and safe when you hug me."

"Warm?" He said with disbelief, he was referring to the coolness of his skin.

"Yes, here." She put a hand on her belly, "to the core of me."

"That is how I feel when you are in my arms. That is how I feel now. I could stay here forever, Christine. I feel… safe when you hug me as well. I trust you, Christine… Erik trusts you. He has never trusted anyone before. Not even the daroga. Especially not the daroga. He has only ever trusted you."

"I am honoured."

"As you should be." Christine smiled, petting his thin hair while he stretched his hand over her own. He stared at their hands for a very long time.

"What are you thinking about?"

"You are very fair-skinned, Christine."

"Yes." She conceded.

"But I am fairer. I am paler than the moon. A sickly pale. A dead pale."

"I like your skin."

"You are mad."

"So I've been told."

"I like _your_ skin," he traced a finger over her knuckles, and then to the finger that had his ring on it… the Wedding Ring, "you have beautiful skin."

"So do you."

"Where has my pretty, little Christine's mind gone?"

"I mean it. You have beautiful skin."

"It is cold."

"You are right. And that is very odd," he whimpered sadly at this, "but I do not mind." She placed a finger underneath his very pointy chin and lifted his eyes to hers.

"I like you."

His lips curved into a somber smile, "I adore you."

"I _love_ you." She said, kissing his forehead and then the hole where he had no nose, and then his cheek, and then his chin.

"You are so good to me, Christine, my wife. Why are you so good to me?"

"Because I love you." She whispered, kissing one side of his mouth and then the other. He gasped against her lips and then breathed in heavily, his whole body shaking. And then she kissed him, sweet and delicate, against his deformed mouth. It was a very short kiss, but also very pleasant. His lips were thin, almost missing while hers were full, soft – and very, very, very soft, just as Erik had only dared to imagine.

He had begun crying again, burying his face into her curls until they were damp with his tears. For a moment she had thought he'd fallen asleep (or passed out), but when she moved to wake him, he had gotten up, nervous and timid, and then promptly disappeared. He stayed in his room for a long while. But he was not so irritable when he returned, he was still afraid to touch her and a little bit on edge, but in some ways he was so much more affectionate, carefully so, but reverently and sweetly so... she appreciated that.


	6. The Lion, the Lamb, and the Antelope

When the Persian _did_ at last visit, he was extremely wary of everything and Erik was extremely on edge about everything. Christine had begun to grow so used to his loving conduct, that his cutting disposition was almost a shock to her. She quickly tried to abate both of their negative attitudes, offering to make tea, and placing a comforting hand on Erik's, massaging his knuckles and smiling sweetly at the both of them. The Persian was very polite to her, complimenting her and her home and her tea, and then he asked to speak with her in private. Erik had been ready to throw him to the ground and squeeze the life out of him, but a gentle, firm look from Christine convinced him to allow M. Khan one moment alone. The daroga could hardly believe it... it was like watching a lamb command a lion not to eat an antelope and the lion actually _acquiescing_.

"Mademoiselle – "

"Madame, if you please. Will you take a seat?" She gestured towards the sofa and then continued, "M. Khan, I cannot tell you how much I appreciate you visiting. However, I understand that you are... uncertain on whether or not everything is really alright here. I can assure you, it is as much as it can be. I _do_ love Erik, in my own way. He has offered me freedom, I have chosen to stay."

The dark-skinned man had looked at her in disbelief then, peering into her bright eyes and trying to find some hint of madness, "Has he hurt you?"

"No."

"Has he violated you?"

"I think that would constitute as hurting me, monsieur, and I have already explained to you that he has not."

"And he is not... keeping you here against your will? Do not be afraid, mademoiselle – "

"Madame."

" _Madame_ , even though I know he is likely still listening, you must be honest with me and trust me. I and your young man have made a plan to help you escape, but you must tell me that it is what you want. Simply nod yes or no."

"M. Khan, really, I... I am touched, truly and deeply... that you would be so willing to do this for Raoul and I, you do not even know us..."

"You _want_ to leave then." He clarified.

"Oh, no! No, I don't want to leave, I simply... I think it is so kind of you to do this for near strangers."

"You are hardly strangers, I almost died with the viscount – _count_ , he is a count now, what with the death of Philippe de Chagny."

"Philippe... dead?"

"You did not know?"

"No, I had no clue, that is so... so sad. After everything he's already been through. Please, give Raoul my sincerest condolences."

"... of course, madame." But there was something further off about him now, "I... I must be frank: though it makes me glad to help others, even those that I personally consider friends or at the very least friendly allies, the foremost reason for my aiding you is that it is my _duty_ to clean up Erik's messes. I saved his life once and not a day goes by that I do not regret it."

"What? How can you say that? Why?"

"He has done many things, madame. Horrible, nightmarish things. Worse than falling chandeliers and plans to blow up a full opera house. Do you understand, madame? _Worse_. He was once an architect and assassin for the Shah of Persia. While he was there he had been sentenced to death, and I, the Chief of Police, foolish and awed by him, helped him to escape. But I could not nor if I were given the chance be able to kill him now. It seems that – against my own will, I assure you – I have grown attached to him. And who am I to rid the world of such a genius? No one should have such power."

"I understand..."

"More than that, you saved the Count de Chagny and I. You sacrificed yourself for us! That is why I must help you. I let him live and now everything that he does, every horror that he commits... it is my fault, you see. You would not be in this situation had it not been for me."

"I... I believe everything happens for a reason, M. Khan –"

"You may call me Nadir."

She grinned, "Thank you, and you may call me Christine."

"I am not so sure how _Erik_ would feel about that, but then he is sour about the very colour of the sky – not that he ever sees it... continue, Christine."

"I believe everything happens for a reason, Nadir. You saved him, and though he is a very confusing and difficult man, I love him and... ultimately, I am glad to have him in my life. I do not wish to leave. However, I do have a very small request."

"Yes?"

"Give this," she got up and pulled a pen and piece of paper from off the nearby desk and began scribbling away as fast as she could, "to Raoul for me. It should... help ease his mind to know that I am safe. Give him my thanks, please, Nadir. I know him... he has probably been doing his very best to save me and it makes me feel guilty... terrible for it, that it now seems to have all been in vain."

He opened his mouth, but something stopped him from saying what he initially meant to and instead he gave a strained smile, "I will do all that you have asked."

"Oh, thank you! And I am glad you visited us, you should come again... but less under the pretense of helping me escape and simply more for the pleasure of our company." Nadir laughed, his jade eyes twinkling warmly.

"Now how could I refuse an official invitation to come and bother Erik with my presence alone? Such opportunities are my purpose for living!" And then she giggled, the sight forcing Nadir to acknowledge just how... _alive_ she looked, alive and truly beautiful for it.

"You know," she said, "you once used to unnerve me quite a bit whenever the chorus girls and I saw you wandering about backstage in the opera house – you were so mysterious, no one ever knew what you might be up to. I think back on it now and... you were just keeping an eye on him, weren't you?"

"It was my duty, and shall remain so."

"Thank you, Nadir."

"Of course." And then his pleasant expression faltered and he grew serious once more, "but if I may say... as greatly as I respect and even admire your strength regarding this affair, I fear... well, I fear this is only the beginning. You must understand that you cannot simply fix him; you cannot magically change him. If he truly loves you, I do not doubt that he will try his very best. But he is not innocent, Christine, and he knows it. If you are to love him, as you nobly claim you do, then you must love him for all that he is... even while he is a murderer, a criminal, and a villain."

She shook her head but he held up a hand, "I am only stating the truth, madame, as painful as it might be. I am his friend and I know that he has done as many great things as he has done terrible things, but even I know better than to believe that he is no less than all I have said."

"I..." She began and then finished sincerely, "Thank you, M. Khan, for both your courtesy, help, and guidance." He nodded solemnly before giving her a friendly if not also somber smile. Shortly after, Christine went to retrieve Erik back from where he had gone to mope and simmer away in his chamber. He slinked into his living room, with one of his masks on and a rather resentful look in his yellow eyes.

"It was good to see you again, Erik." The daroga said in the most pleasant tone he could muster. Erik would not say a word, and so his friend only bowed his head to him and turned to Christine.

"I thank you, madame, for your time. Perhaps I truly will take you up on that offer of visiting again... if only to annoy Erik some more, it is my life's occupation after all." And before Erik could quite literally toss him out the door, Nadir Khan scurried away, lifting his astrakhan hat to the two of them in one last act of mischief. Erik continued to be furious after the Persian left, so much so that he did not even speak to Christine for the rest of the day. She waited patiently, however, waited for him to finally say what he wanted so badly to say... it would not be fun, she realized, and with the harrowing and yet realistic thoughts that the daroga had brought on, she was feeling extra apprehensive.

"How could you?" He'd asked at last, "Why would you invite him again? Is it all part of some plan? Is he coming to take you away the next time he comes, Christine? Is that what the two of you were discussing when he asked to speak with you alone? Do you think your precious _boy_ is going to come along and sweep you away from this dark, evil, monster's dungeon? But you are _mine_ , Christine. You are mine. He cannot have you, you cannot leave. You are mine! You promised, Christine. You promised Erik. You promised him. You cannot leave him. Oh, please, Christine, do not leave me. Please, you promised." He was rambling now, and grasping at her upper arms tightly… it almost hurt.

"Erik!" She said, grabbing onto his forearms, shaking him slightly, "Erik, listen to me." But he would not, he continued to howl and groan and cry through his mask – and then he held her about her waist, clutching at her back and hair.

"Oh, Erik, please listen to me. _Please_. I am not going to leave you. Stop crying and listen to me."

"You cannot… you cannot leave your poor Erik, Christine. You _cannot_! Oh, I should have left the fool and the boy in my burning forest, I should have let them _die_!"

"No, Erik! Don't say such things!"

"It is because you still love him, isn't it! That gentle love! That ideal love! The love that all silly, brainless women dream of! Oh, I should have _killed_ him when I had the chance! But no, Christine, Erik did not. He let him live for _you_ , Christine. And how do you repay your gracious Erik, _your husband_ , you _betray_ him! You _leave him._ " His nails bit sharply through her dress and into her skin, making her hiss lightly in pain.

"I'm not going to leave you!" She shouted, "I promised to stay, didn't I? I will keep my promise, Erik. Please, see _reason_!" His grip loosened, his fingers spanning across the expanse of her back – no longer painful but just as possessive.

"But he will return, and he will take you away from Erik, I know it, Christine."

"Erik, _listen_... I invited him because I think it would be good for you to have a friend visit you. I'm not planning on leaving you. Didn't you hear a thing he and I said?"

"You asked to be left _alone_ , did you not?"

"We did."

"Therefore _no_ , Christine, I did not."

"You didn't eavesdrop?"

"What good would it do to hear you say the words I dread most? It would only burn me, Christine! It would hurt Erik so immensely, oh it would shatter his soul into smithereens! Of course he did not listen to you proclaim your love for that simpering whelp as you planned to run away from Erik forever! I do not revel in my pain, Christine, as you so apparently think I do!"

"I don't think that: I don't think that all! I wish you would trust me, Erik. I'm not going to leave you. I love you! I just think it might be nice to have M. Khan visit us again."

"But... oh, but Erik has _you_ , Christine, and that is all he needs. Don't you understand?" He sighed, "Christine is all he wants. He does not need the daroga and his annoying questions and his big, fat nose that happens to find itself in everyone's business." She could feel him beginning to calm down now, his breathing and heartbeat slowing – it gave her courage and confidence.

"I know, Erik, but sometimes it's good to have other people. If you are so hostile, you only prove to him that something really _is_ the matter... perhaps, it is not just him that needs convincing otherwise _._ I _am_ here of my own free will, Erik, I'm not going to leave you," she repeated, "I invited him because he is your friend."

"He is not my friend."

"Yes, I know, he is your annoying little fly."

Erik gave a watery chuckle and then exhaled a shuddering breath before burying his masked face into her pretty hair. She could not help but notice how odd it felt to feel the fake, porcelain nose against the side of her head – she longed to ask him to remove the wretched thing. Thankfully, however, she did not have to. He acted on his own, taking it off that he might weep without drowning in his own tears.

"You have my greatest, most humble apologies, Christine. I lost myself. I... I am so sorry, please... forgive me. I only… Erik only worries sometimes. He worries that his dear wife will leave him someday. I would not blame you if you did. Oh, but do not, Christine. Do not leave your poor, little husband. Or at least tell him, let him know that you want to. He would let you go, even... even though it would kill him. But do not _torture_ him! I have terrible thoughts sometimes, Christine… ones where this is all a game to you, where you are playing with Erik's fragile heart… only to break it. I should not think of it, how could I think such a thing? But Erik has been broken so many times, he is simply waiting… waiting for the axe to swing."

Christine nodded against him, "I know, Erik, it won't happen though. Never – I will never let it happen. I promised. You must trust me."

"I do, Christine… you are the _only_ one I trust."

"But – "

He held a finger to his lips then, shaking his head and sighing heavily, "Christine, when I say you are the only one I trust, I mean exactly that. I have _never_ trusted before, at least I have not trusted since Erik's mother, and that trust was very short-lived before I ran away. Therefore, when I say that I trust you, it does not mean that I do not have distrusting thoughts about you but that I have _trusting_ thoughts about you, and I have never had trusting thoughts before. That is… at this time, as far as Erik can trust. Perhaps, one day, he will have learned to do better. But he… he is very unfamiliar with trust, Christine. You must be patient with him... and patient with yourself." She had begun crying, thinking of the horrid things he had been through in his life – not to mention that the sudden outburst from earlier had exhausted and frightened her. _Patient with yourself, he said._ _What does he mean?_

"Do you understand, Christine?" He said as he wiped her hot tears away.

"I... no."

He tsked and tilted his head sympathetically, "Only remember in moments like these, when Erik is not... when he is not so good. Be patient with yourself when the beast acts on its more savage ways: it is not your fault – _never_ your fault, it is only ever his, no matter what he may say."

"I understand."

"No, not yet. But someday." She nodded and then boldly asked if he would hold her. That was all she needed to say before he was embracing her once more, pitying his poor Christine for being stuck with a creature as damaged and unstable as him.


	7. Disentangler

It had been over a month and a half since the Persian... and now here Christine was, looking at _it_ again, realizing she would have to leave her room at some point or else Erik would worry something was wrong. She kind of wanted to have a mask of her own now. She thought about using some powder, but she hadn't put on much makeup for a very long while (she'd never liked the odd clumpy feeling of it) and Erik would probably be suspicious as to why she'd suddenly do such a thing… and besides… the _pimple_ was so large she doubted that any amount of makeup could fully cover it. She decided to wash her face a couple of times (as if it would suddenly wash away or disappear at this action).

 _Yes_ , she realized again, _I'll just have to get over it_. It wasn't even a pimple she could pop or anything (though that probably would've been no better), it was just this painful, red bump underneath the surface of her skin. She groaned and then quieted suddenly when she heard a knock at her door.

"Christine?" He called, "Is everything alright?"

"Don't worry, Erik, everything is fine! I just woke up a bit later – I'm still getting dressed."

"Well, when you are ready, I have food set out on the table for you. I have to run an errand today, but I will be back as soon as I can."

"Alright, Erik, be careful! I love you!" She felt horrible – he always liked to have a kiss on the cheek before he left for something, it was a tradition they had developed and one they kept religiously, and she was denying him all because of a _zit_. But she could not go out, nope, she simply could not do it. She tried not to groan again in fear that he was still out there and would begin to worry something really _was_ the matter.

He cleared his throat from behind the door, "Goodbye then, my dear, I love you."

Oh, she could not let him leave feeling so dejected, she _could not_. Christine ran to the door, perhaps she could hug him very quickly instead, but keep her face hidden from him and then go to the dining room and sit so that he was only facing her right side. She opened it, peering out a little to see him standing there, surprised at the odd expression in her eyes and then startled when she suddenly launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his waist tightly and murmuring another 'I love you.' He gladly accepted the hug, pressing his cheek to the top of her head.

"Such a good wife you are to your Erik, Christine." _No, I'm not_ , she thought, _I was going to deny you a real goodbye all because of a zit and I'm going to hide away now all because of a zit._ She felt like a child, a very petulant, sad, little child to be pitied and she did pity herself. But she could not bear to shatter his image of her, his image of his perfect Christine, with her pristine features and her impeccable beauty. No, she would not let this blemish ruin it. She held him for a little while longer and then hurried to the table, making sure that only the _right_ side of her faced him. But then she cursed silently when she saw that the food was on the _right_ end of the table meaning that she would have to show the _left_ side of her face. She smiled at him nervously and then waved at him from where she was, still not sitting down to her food.

"Are you _certain_ everything is alright, Christine?" Her eyes widened a little and she nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Perfectly alright. I just, ah, I just don't very much feel like tea today, I think I will run to the larder to get some milk instead. Come back home soon!"

Erik raised his head a little and narrowed his eyes as he watched her skitter off into the kitchen. He had to leave for now, but he _would_ find out what the matter was. He grabbed his mask and hat, a strange sort of sadness weighing on his heart when he grabbed for his cloak and it was not his little wife that clasped it for him and then kissed his cheek before he covered it with his mask. This could not go on, whatever it was, it would surely kill him. At last he left, perhaps shutting the door a bit harder than he had meant to. She winced at the sound of the door slamming, finally letting out that second horrified groan and then running to her room to check to see if _it_ was still there.

It was.

She couldn't go on like this and who knew how long it would be there. Christine remembered one of the first she had ever had and how it had stayed for a whole six weeks. She wanted to cry at the thought of _this_ staying for six weeks. She poked it again, silently hoping that maybe it wouldn't come back up after she lifted her finger. At last she decided to stop torturing herself and to go eat the meal Erik had lovingly prepared for her.

It was always very lonely when he went out to do errands, she would often clean during these times – or read, or maybe write, once or twice she had drawn something – her favourites being a vase full of flowers that Erik had gotten her and then another one featuring long, skeletal hands playing the keys of his piano. Christine had watched those hands so many times that she knew every detail by heart. She did not show Erik either of the drawings because one) she did not think them very good anyway (especially compared to _his_ masterpieces), and two) she was a little embarrassed about it. She'd hidden them underneath the mattress of her bed. Other times she would sew and occasionally she would play a song on the pianoforte, though it seemed wrong to her… as if only Erik should be allowed to play on this piano. It was his… and sometimes, she'd daresay he was _its._ When he got into his moods – those mad, genius moods, they were the only time he was at home and away from her all at once. She was sure nothing would ever be able to sway his attention – not even her kisses. He wouldn't even react in those moments and once he had actually abruptly stood up, took his papers, and locked himself up in his room without a word.

Christine had cried about it, too, though she felt very silly and spoiled for it. And she had told him so when he had finally returned to her a day later, making her some breakfast and sitting beside her at the table. She smiled solemnly at him, taking a few bites of her food and then clearing her throat.

"I was so silly yesterday, Erik, I'm sorry I distracted you from your work, I should have known better." And though she knew the words coming out of her mouth were supposed to be an apology, they sounded so much more like an accusation: _you left me, how could you leave me like that? Don't you love me?_ And just thinking of those questions were enough to make her start crying. She exhaled roughly, wiping away at the offensive things falling from her eyes.

"I'm sorry, again; I really do _not_ know what's come over me! I am acting like a child. You are a good husband and a good friend, you do so much for me, and I should not… I… I rather think you have spoiled me, Erik, being so good and attentive to me, I do not know how to handle it when you shut me out… I am sorry, I think I need a moment to myself – I'm sorry." She got up then and he watched her, mystified at the sudden outbreak of emotion… and then suddenly feeling very bad. His Christine was a very brave and strong woman… much stronger than him in several ways, he acknowledged… but she was also a human, a human that needed love and was so much more used to love than he was. And even then he knew that if for a single moment she turned away from him and ignored him he would feel as if life had no meaning at all… as if it were not worth living. If she rejected him as he had so blatantly rejected her yesterday, he knew he would not live to see the next day out of a broken heart. But then, Erik was very dramatic and surely he _would_ live to see the next day, but he'd certainly feel quite miserable.

What Erik had never fully considered was that Christine might feel the same about him. He knew that she loved him somehow. She had said and shown as much plenty of times. But he did not think she could ever feel about him the way he felt about her. She was his lifeline… the very air he breathed… his everything… his music. The last being the most significant for he did not need anything as long as he had music and so he did not need anything as long as he had Christine. He would have to make it up to her, he realized, for making her feel so terrible. And to think she was apologizing to _him_ when he had _ignored_ her. She had been apologizing for _loving_ him, and that simply would not do.

Christine had been patting her face with a wet towel, trying to rid herself of the red spreading on her cheeks and neck when she heard the knock on her door. She swallowed, calling out to him.

"Just one moment please, Erik, I'll be right out. I'm sorry for leaving, I'll be right there, I promise."

She heard a sigh and the tears began to form in her eyes again.

"Are you decent?" He asked and she knew that meant he was coming in whether she wanted him to or not… and at the moment, Christine was perfectly alright with that.

"Yes," Christine answered, waiting for the handle of her door to turn from the outside… but it didn't, and she began to feel the sharp pain of rejection once more, and then she was crying fully again. She pressed her face into her pillow, trying to calm down, telling herself she was being ridiculous. She didn't even notice her bed creaking as someone sat upon it at her side… but then she did notice a familiar, cold hand on her back, making large and comforting circles, and she did notice a soothing and entrancing voice whispering sweet things to her like, "You aren't ridiculous, Christine," and, "It's alright, my darling," and, "Come now, dear, you are perfectly fine." Soon she was breathing again and simply lying there with her head on her arms and her eyes closed as her husband continued to console her.

Christine blinked a few times, thinking about the weird feeling of her wet eyelids brushing against her cheeks. She supposed she must look _truly_ dreadful now. A sigh escaped her lips and her husband hummed, letting his hand simply rest on her back now.

"Are you feeling any better?"

She could only nod, feeling rather like a little girl and not a grown woman of twenty.

"Would you like me to get you anything? Tea or perhaps some sweets?"

She shook her head, wiping her face against her pillow and still not willing to look up at him just yet.

"Is there anything at all that you would like me to do?" He sounded so much like a parent, all soft and willing and patient. It made her think of her Mamma Valerius – it made her think of her Papa. She nodded and sat up, tears filling her eyes as she held out her arms and then clung to him, crying onto his jacket and then crying even harder when he held her and rocked her like a babe. He hushed and crooned, pushing her hair out her face and giving her tight, reassuring squeezes. When she'd finally calmed down again, feeling exhausted and weepy, she tried to speak but it was a futile endeavor: she'd only managed to get herself to cry again. But Erik had been uncomplaining throughout it all, nodding when she sniffled and patting her back when she hiccoughed.

And then, for the _third time_ , Christine calmed down. She did not chance at speaking yet though, afraid that she would begin again. Both of them imagined that she was likely crying about more than just what had happened with her and Erik… that she was likely crying about all that she had been enduring over the past year or so, about her father, about her mother, about herself. It was just that she had finally let a modicum of it out, and after holding it all in for so long, simply could not stop. There was much to cry about. Erik, himself, was a little hesitant to say anything for fear that she would try to respond and then burst into tears a fourth time. He was not entirely sure how much longer he could bear his sweet Christine's tears. So he waited, simply seeing fit to hold her until she decided whether or not she was able to speak.

And while he waited, he looked down at her, observing her as she stared at his jacket and messed with one of the buttons. He would never tell her, oh no, but her eyes looked so very blue after she cried… and her flushed face was not unattractive though he imagined that she probably felt very warm and achy after so much crying. But those pretty blue eyes… were so much more prominent, so bright and beautiful, he did not believe he had seen anything quite so magnificent in all of his life… and he had lived a long life. Which reminded him of how young she was, because she had _not_ lived a very long life. He was twice her age if not a bit more, he could very well be her father. And sometimes, he realized, that was what she needed… just like… sometimes, he needed a mother. _We are both orphans_ , he thought. Perhaps that had been another thing which had drawn him to her. She needed him; like he needed someone… needed _her._ He was glad to be her comforter in this moment – glad to be the one to hold her and soothe her effectively. He liked to believe that no one else could have done as well as him. Her voice pulled him out of his reverie then, and she was looking up at him with those vibrant blue eyes.

"Thank you…" she mumbled, "I'm sorry – " she began, but then he shook his head.

"Do not be sorry. There is nothing to be sorry about."

"But I – "

"Christine, you had every right to feel as you did. I should not have disregarded you so; it is I who should be apologizing."

She was about to refute him when he cut her off, "I know you are a very smart and mature young woman, Christine. You have proven this to me time and time again – "

"I do not feel so mature right now."

"Do not interrupt me." He snapped, and she shrunk a little, nodding and waiting for him to continue, "You _are_ mature; otherwise I would not love you as I do. But, my dear, I think where you err is where you attempt to be too mature; too strong; too steely. It is harmful to shove so many feelings away, even if they are burdensome. Sometimes, it is very necessary to accept them – to embrace them, lest we fall apart even greater."

She furrowed her brow in confusion, but did not dare answer.

"I know I cannot say that you should have told me that I had been hurting your feelings – I do not think I would have listened. For you see, Christine – and I know you do – your Erik is very _immature_ sometimes and he does not always associate."

She tilted her head, _associate?_

"For example, when I had been composing, Christine, all I thought of was you. You are often an inspiration for my music, my dear. In fact, my greatest inspiration: _my only inspiration_. Yet, while I thought of you, I thought nothing of you. I did not think of you standing beside me, asking after my companionship. I did not think of you waiting outside of my room, while I went to work for what seemed like mere seconds but was in reality hours. I did not _associate_ ; I did not think that my Christine would have any need of me while she was encompassing every thought I had. You were with me every moment, and yet I was closed off from you. It is very silly, no? I am very sorry for it. And I will do whatever I can to make up for it." He paused then to boop her nose affectionately.

"But continue to listen to me for a moment," he began again, "because I think it is important for you to hear. You must be honest with your Erik, Christine. When you feel lonely or sad, you must tell him – he will comfort you, and you need not feel embarrassed or ashamed of feeling such things. It is only _human_ , and it is a very good thing you are human. Do not bear the weight of anything alone if you do not have to, and I assure you, _you do not have to_. I am here, Christine. What you felt yesterday – the rejection and neglect and the reaction you had to it – the sadness and distress – it is all perfectly normal if not a fundamental part of truly _living_. Your poor husband is terribly sorry you felt you had to apologize to him for only being the good wife that you are and giving him your perfect love. I… I cannot promise that what happened yesterday will never happen again, Christine, but know that I love you even when I fail to express it as I should. And what I _can_ promise is that from now on… when those things happen, I will do my best to make it up to you in whatever way you should see fit. Lastly," he crooned, pushing back some of her hair behind her ear and running a cool finger down her cheek, "Do not, Christine, do not ever for _one moment_ think you do not deserve _every_ bit of my unworthy love and time."

Christine wiped her eyes for the umpteenth time. The corners felt very sore and raw from being rubbed at with salty tears – she felt grateful for the coolness of his touch. Unwilling to speak (as she was certain she would begin to cry again if she tried), she mouthed a 'thank you' hoping that Erik would not take her mild thanks as an insult for being the only response she could muster at his beautiful and kind admission. Erik really was like a child at times... but then he had moments like these, when she realized he was not so unwise or unknowledgeable… in truth, he was one of the wisest people she had ever known.

To try to make up for her lack of speech, she leaned up a bit, and he seemed to instinctively understand, leaning his own head forward and sighing when she pressed a kiss to his disfigured cheek.

"You are quite welcome, my dear, thank you. Now, I will leave you for a bit so that you can freshen up and then perhaps you can come out and finish a late breakfast with me, does that sound pleasant?"

She shook her head and he tsked.

"Surely, you must be hungry; you have not eaten in over thirteen hours."

But she shook her head again, wrapping her arms around his waist and curling up against him.

"Then what would you like to do?"

"This," she sniffled.

He did not think of any reason to deny her, and so Erik acquiesced, reciprocating her hold and then beginning to sing her a song. She needed rest, he figured, and so he sang a lullaby, knowing that her outburst would contribute to her drowsiness. Soon enough, she was sleeping soundly against him… or at least, so he had thought, for he had not known any soundly sleeping person (though perhaps he did not have much of a basis for comparison) to have such a strong grip. For when he stood up and placed her into the bed, she would not release him.

"Christine," he whispered, "let go." But then she made a pitiful whining sound as he began to pull at her arms.

"Hugs…" she said, "stay." He could think of plenty of reasons to deny her now… but he could not find it within himself. And so he slipped onto the bed, above the covers, while she lay beneath them, and let her use him as a pillow – with her head and hand on his chest. Erik learned that day that Christine had a tendency to squirm in her sleep. She'd hit him at least twice in the face and kicked him once, he was not sure whether to leave or laugh, so he settled on just staying and being silent and calling her ridiculous while she slept. But those three hours had not been without their sweet moments, for at one point, Christine's little hand grabbed his and pressed it beneath her cheek, 'mmm-ing' contentedly – Erik presumed it must have been for the coolness. He did not doubt that she was probably quite warm in her day clothing. Yet Christine had done it simply because it was her Erik's hand, and it was so very soft even if bony, it was nicer than any pillow. Christine, however, was _not_ aware of the moment when she'd practically laid on top of him, half of the covers on her and both of her arms wrapped around his neck – he had had to disentangle her (he would have chuckled at the memory of being called her 'disentangler' if he was not so distracted by the fact that a woman was laying on him and they were both in a bed and she was his wife and yet he was absolutely not allowed to be thinking the thoughts that he was thinking) and move her away, she'd whimpered at that and it pained him, but he simply could not allow it. It was bad enough that he'd agreed to stay with her.

When she woke up, he was still awake, but on his side and looking at her – towards the end of her slumber, they'd finally settled on a comfortable position: facing one another, and nothing touching except for their hands. Erik was happy with that… he ran his fingers over hers, and then held them, rubbing her knuckles with his thumb and staring at their entwined hands.

"Good evening, wife." He had that strange lilt in his voice when he got into a dreamy, wistful mood. It was the tone he had when he became a child, a sweet, eager-to-please child.

"Good evening, husband." His eyes snapped up to look at hers in astonishment – it had been the first time she had called him husband like that… she had acknowledged it before, but she had never really _called_ him it, not like he called her wife, "What time is it?" She continued.

"Late enough for it to be dark – around five or six."

"How long was I asleep?"

"About three hours and eighteen minutes."

"About?" She repeated, smiling slightly. He could only shrug.

"More or less."

"Thank you, Erik. For what you did for me. It was everything I needed and more." He tapped her hand, glancing up at the ceiling and then at her face.

"I meant every word."

"I know."

"I love you."

"And I love you."

"You are… quite adorable, Christine, when you sleep."

"Really?"

He nodded; running a finger down the bridge to the tip of her nose, making her close her eyes and create a delighted sound in the back of her throat.

"So beautiful," he muttered, tracing her eyebrow.

"Thank you."

"Christine..."

"Yes?"

"May I... may I touch your face?"

"You _are_ touching my face, Erik."

"Yes," his finger stilled, "but I should like your permission."

She was quiet for a moment before nodding, "You may touch my face."

And then he moved so he was hovering over her and her heart hammered in her chest at the sudden change.

"Erik?" She asked, confused.

"Hush," he told her, "close your eyes."

"Why?"

"I said so."

"You know I hate it when you say –"

But he placed his hands on both sides of her face, very gently – holding her face carefully, as if she might break. He rubbed her temples, and then ran his fingers behind her ears, down her jawline, and then back to her temples. Her eyes were closed now as she relished every tingle and every caress, she sighed, happy when he stroked her cheeks and brushed over her eyelids with reverence. Her face was perfection to him, and he could not stop the feeling of utter elation of being allowed to touch and feel it. So unbelievably fair and smooth. He gazed at her lips for a moment… he thought about it, thought very long and hard about it, but decided it would be better not to and to simply enjoy the precious moment they were having now… which lasted for another five minutes or so until Erik nearly _felt_ more than _heard_ Christine's stomach growl. Her eyes opened again and she blushed.

"I think, my dear, it is time to get something to eat."

She readily agreed, getting up and following him into the kitchen to have a very, very late breakfast.


	8. Dancing

They had grown much closer since that incident... in fact; she had even begun to consider suggesting sharing a bed. Nothing more, but just to share one… at least so he was no longer sleeping in a coffin. She hated the coffin and the idea of her very much _alive_ husband sleeping in it. He was so dark sometimes; he had such a morbid sense of humour and his idea of fun mostly consisted of tricks and teases. Once or twice he had hidden one of her books or works of stitching and made her search for them – he'd thought it all rather amusing (if she had done anything similar to him he would have probably called her ridiculous and emptily threatened to lock her up in her room). Her idea of fun was a very giddy sort of gaiety, and she had convinced him to join her a few times as well. One of her favourite moments being when she'd gotten him to dance with her. It had been later in the evening and she had been feeling very frivolous and playful, enough to grab his book while he was in the middle of reading and begin balancing it on her head.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Practicing being a lady, can't you tell?" She began walking with faux kind of haughtiness.

"Yes, you look quite lovely, now give me back my book."

"Oh, you are no fun at all. Why don't you come play with me?" She giggled, refusing to return his book.

"This is not _fun_ , this is folly. Maybe you ought to go to bed, Christine, you seem a little tired."

"I'm not tired. Not in the least bit! Don't you ever just want to be a child; to run around and skip and play and dance?" Christine removed the object from her head and put it back in its place on the shelves.

"No."

"You sound like an old curmudgeon."

"Well, then do I have _news_ _for you._ "

"You're silly."

"I think, madame," _madame, how strange to be called that_ , she thought _,_ "you will find that it is quite the opposite. _You_ are silly. What are you doing now?" She had grabbed his hands and began pulling him out of his large chair.

"Proving you wrong."

"Proving me wrong about _what_?" She didn't answer and instead brought him into the space between the dining and living rooms, smiling so sweetly all the way that he couldn't possibly bear to pull away. That is, at least, until she put a hand on his shoulder and told him to put his hand on her waist.

"Oh, no, no-no-no, I do not think so." He started to walk away but then she attached herself to his arm.

"Please! One dance, Erik, that's all I'm asking for. It's what normal everyday husbands and wives do, they dance with each other and have fun with one another."

"We do have fun – this is not fun. How about I show you another magic trick instead?"

"Erik," she sighed, "I don't want another magic trick, I want to dance with you."

"Christine..."

"Just one?"

"I don't know how to – I never learned, don't you understand, you silly girl? I simply can't."

She sighed, "I _do_ understand, Erik. That's why I want to teach you." His eyes softened and his heartbeat quickened, with love or nervousness he was not quite sure though he suspected both. He nodded then, he could deny her nothing. It wasn't, necessarily, that he did not understand dancing – for he knew most things on a purely scientific level, with all of his travels and experiences it was impossible to not know a thing or two. Not to mention that he lived beneath an _opera house_ and he'd seen the occasional ball (even attended a few, though more for business than pleasure) and frequented the operas and endured many of the ballets there. Some days he enjoyed them, other days he felt the opera could do without. But he did appreciate dancing, he had four or five books on it, two of which were instructional and three were historical. He had taught himself what he could, and he was sure that he would not be a terrible dancer when given the chance... but the fact of the matter was that he _hadn't_ been given the chance. And there was something very different about dancing –

" – dancing with air and dancing with an actual real life person. When I was younger I would dance all of the time. Papa had taught me three or four different kinds. Unfortunately, I haven't had much practice dancing with someone else since then, so I'm a bit unused. But I remember enough. Would you like me to show you first or do you just want to try something right away?"

"Whatever you would prefer, _Maestra_." Christine blushed at the moniker, she had never really taught him anything before, at least, nothing like this. It was odd to be the teacher.

"Right... yes," she straightened, "Hm... so, the Waltz would probably be easiest for the both of us to get used to, then maybe we can try the Polka or something of the like later on. Sound suitable?"

He shrugged and crossed his arms, leaning against the back of his chair as he watched her expectantly.

"I have never been all that great at dancing, I seem to lack in grace, so you will have to bear with me... and not laugh." He raised an absent eyebrow at her reluctance, _she was the one that_ wanted _to._

"When we start," she held out her arms then, one hand carefully holding the top of her skirts and the other in the hand of an invisible partner, "you place your right foot like this and I will mirror you, like so. And then you will move clockwise, leading me, and then you will walk forward three steps while I move backward three steps. _Counterclockwise_ , I move forward three steps, you move backward three steps. And then you can pick up the pace a little, perhaps add a sashay here or there, and then sometimes the lady may do a little twirl or the gentleman might lift her. And just like that! – you are dancing... one, two, three and one, two, three, and – "

"You lied," he said suddenly, and she stopped, dropping her hands instantly and looking up at him with unease, "In all of my years... I have never seen anyone dance as gracefully as you have just done."

"You're just saying that," she said, but she could not stop the huge grin from spreading across her face.

"I never say anything just to say it, my dear." And what he had said was the absolute truth, at least in his eyes. He had seen hundreds if not thousands of ballerinas, all quite beautiful and extravagant. He had seen streetwise gypsies jangling their ankles and spinning madly like tops. He had seen the Shah of Persia's most celebrated and exotic dancers strutting and swaying. But never had he beheld any dancer as glorious or elegant or enticing as his Christine – for she danced like she sang, with her very soul. Oh, it took his breath away. He bowed to her then, holding out his hand, "Now, you were going to teach an old fool to dance?"

"Yes," she curtseyed, taking his hand and blushing lightly when his other closed over her waist and pulled her near. He had held her before, but there was something so very acutely... romantic about it all that it made her heart beat just a little faster, "and you aren't old."

"Never mind that, which foot is it again?"

"Um, your right. And then you go clockwise, like that. Forward, one, two, three, and – "

"Counterclockwise?"

"Precisely, one, two, three, forward, one, two, three, and clockwise, one, two, thr – "

"Christine," his tone was amused and his voice silky and warm, "you do not have to keep reminding me."

"Oh, sorry," she chuckled nervously, "you're right. You seem to have a pretty good handle on it. Erik, are you sure you've never danced before?"

"Yes."

"But you're doing so well! You are _positive_ you've never danced before? Or did you just tell me that so I would make an idiot of myself and dance for you?"

"You paint a very wicked picture of me, Christine, you wound me! No, my dear wife, as wonderful as it was watching you - and it _was_ wonderful, I can assure you that I have never danced before in my life. Didn't you say something about a twirl?" He let go of her waist then, smiling at her as she laughed aloud and gave a little spin.

"Yes, I did, and also something about – " He promptly lifted her up and then set her back down again. He began to move at a wider gait and quicker, dancing with her in a more vigorous variation of the Galop.

"I don't," she breathed, "remember teaching you this yet!"

"You haven't."

"Then how do you know?" He didn't answer quite yet, twirling her a second time and going in another circle around the room, she tripped a little then and he caught her easily, "Sorry... clumsy."

"Nonsense," he eased up, moving into a much slower waltz, "As to your question: I have never danced before, but I have studied. I understand a great variety of different dances, I have simply never been able to practice them before."

"So you are a master dancer now, too?"

"No. My technique is horrendous. But I am very sure I could become one, if I wanted."

"Has anyone ever told you that you are a bit full of yourself?"

"The daroga has told me as much over a hundred times, why?"

She snorted, moving her hand from her gown to his shoulder, "What do you think?"

"Are you blind?" He asked her, he sounded completely earnest.

"No?"

"Are you sure that while we were dancing I didn't rattle something loose in that pretty head of yours?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are you _looking_ at my face, Christine?"

"Yes."

"With a face like mine I think I am _permitted_ to be a bit full of myself where I am due praise, thank you."

"Ah."

"Ah," he mimicked, bringing their hands to rest together on his chest. They had taken to moving no more than a few steps at a time now.

"This is... very intimate dancing." It had only been an observation, she had never danced in such a way before.

"We are married."

"I know."

"Do you? I am not always so sure."

"Erik..."

"Forgive me, I know you do not like being reminded."

"Don't."

"Are you thinking of _him_ right now? Don't say anything."

"I – "

"Do you ever listen to a thing I say? I said _don't say anything_." He sighed exasperatedly, rubbing the top of her hand with his thumb but more for his own comfort than hers, "Put your head on my shoulder." She did as he asked, resting her head beneath his chin and staring at her fingers enclosed in his.

"I apologize, Christine. That was wrong of me. I do not know why, so do not ask: but it is... it is always most difficult for Erik during moments like these... to believe... to trust his sweet wife, you must pardon him when he is like this, you must be... you must be understanding, though it is much to ask for."

"It's not."

"You were right, Christine. This was... fun." _Before I ruined it._

"Don't feel bad, Erik. And it really was, it was a lot of fun. This is nice, too. I like simply being in your arms like this. We should do it again sometime – perhaps during one of the operas, so there will be music for us."

"Even... no. Yes. That is good: a fine idea, my dear."

"Indeed it is." He said nothing in reply, and it did not bother her, for she knew it was likely for fear of breaking down. She just enjoyed being close to him and listening to him breathe while he did the same with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like you to just take these next few moments to imagine Erik actually going out of his way to figure out how dancing works and teaching himself how to dance. Why would he do that, you ask? I dunno, just in case. Maybe he only decided to try to learn when he started to dream about being with Christine. I imagine he started to plan a lot of things when he started fantasizing about married life, like going out on walks and gardening and dancing and stargazing, but now that he has the chance to, he's all apprehensive and he doesn't know exactly what to do or how to approach the subject. He only knows what he's seen. He mimics. What a precious little awkward baby that doesn't know how to have fun.
> 
> I told you fluff and what happened? Fluff.


	9. Book It

Christine had taken to reading, though she wasn't really processing anything at all – in fact, she hadn't even looked at the book she chose, she just grabbed one off the shelf, focused on trying to figure out what to do with the… _situation_ at hand. She contemplated just strategically hiding her face from him until it went away, but it quickly became clear to her that that was really just a terrible idea. Of course… that didn't mean that until she came up with something better that she wouldn't attempt it. So when Erik finally came home, she raised her eyes only a little bit over the book hovering over her face to see him.

"Good afternoon, wife." Christine could tell by the sound of his voice that he was not in a very happy mood. She wondered if it was just because of this morning or if something bad had happened during his errand.

"Good afternoon, husband." She responded, and gazed up at him from behind her book, watching as he relaxed (if only a little) at her calling him husband, "How was your errand?"

"Longer than necessary," was his curt reply, "What did you do while I was gone?"

She shrugged, "I cleaned, ate a little, read." She watched as he moved closer, his arms crossed.

"That book, I suppose?"

"Yes," and he nodded slowly before turning around and discarding his hat, mask, and cloak.

"You know, Christine, I was not aware of the fact that you could read English."

"What?" She asked as he shifted towards her. He gestured to the book in her hands.

"The book you are reading – that is my English copy. And what a curious tale to select, indeed."

"Yes, well... I have been reading away."

"Have you read it before?"

"Hm, no." He strode nearer and she inched a bit further away.

"But you are reading it now?"

"Yes, this is me... reading it."

"Who is your favourite character?"

"Oh, well… I, uh, I haven't read enough yet to pick one, I am still deciding."

"Ah, but of course! What page are you on?"

She read the numbers in the corner, "Thirty-six."

"Hm... it's a pity that poor chap Lewis dies, isn't it?"

"Yes, of course, I thought it rather sad."

Erik sat down in his large chair, pulling up one his feet to rest on his knee and propping an elbow on one of the arms.

"Christine…"

"Yes?"

"There is no one by the name of Lewis in that book."

Christine sighed and dropped her head onto the pages, she had had a feeling he may have been testing her.

"I'm sorry, Erik."

"Yes, I daresay you are, but what about? What are you hiding from me, Christine? You have been very off today."

"I don't want to say."

"Why?"

"Because." Her voice was muffled by the book she would not pull from her face, it began to irritate him. But he knew she would not respond to force… his Christine required a gentle hand and a cool head.

"Christine, tell your Erik what the matter is. He is here for you, remember?"

She sighed again, but did not remove the object from her face.

"Why are you still looking at that book when we both know you cannot read it?"

"Well, what if I am trying to learn?"

"Is that what it is? Are you trying to learn English? I can help you with that, Christine."

"No," she moaned, "that's not it."

"Then what the devil _is_ it?" He raised his voice a little, but then took a deep breath, "I apologize, my dear, I simply… I missed you very much today, and with you acting so strange… it is very off-putting to me."

"Oh, Erik, I'm sorry."

"Please, Christine, talk to your husband – surely he can find the solution to whatever it is that's bothering you so."

"I bet he can't."

He could only gape at that – how could she say such a thing? She hadn't doubted his abilities before. Why was she being so mysterious and distant… and, quite frankly, altogether unpleasant.

"I have had enough of this. Christine, remove that thing from your face at once and look me in the eye."

She gave another shake of her head, though she did glance over the edge of her book to look at him – it almost broke his heart to see such a hopeless expression in her eyes.

"Oh, Christine, please, I will go senseless if you do not tell me what it is! At least let Erik _try_ to help, or _comfort_ you… give me _something_ , please."

"Erik…"

"Yes? What is it, my love?"

"If had a flaw… would you still love me?"

"What do you mean? You do not have flaws."

She sighed, "But what if I _did_ have a flaw? What if I was not beautiful or perfect?"

"You will always be beautiful and perfect, Christine, and nothing will change that."

"But surely you do not think I will always look like this… I mean, one day I will grow old and gray and fat – will you still love me then?"

He grew quiet, resting his chin in his hand and tapping his bottom lip. At last he answered.

"Yes. You are Christine, even if you are old and gray and fat. Of course, I would still love you. What a silly thing to ask. You are everything to me." Erik had never entirely thought of it before, though it was a subconscious understanding that one day Christine would change… and one day so would he. But he did not like to think of such things, because he worried that one day he would leave his poor, little wife all alone in this wretched world with no Erik to care for her. He was so much older than her… even if he did not feel very weak or old.

He saw her eyes soften, the familiar sheen of growing tears in them.

"Is that you are worried about, Christine? Growing old and my losing interest in you?"

"No, not exactly."

He made an exasperated sigh, "Then _what_ is it? And, remove the book; I really do not understand why you won't, it's quite rude to talk to someone from behind a book."

But then she did not and he grew impatient, and quicker than she could comprehend he flew across from his chair to the sofa and ripped the book from her hand, flinging it across the room. She squealed, shoving her face into the couch cushions. But it had been too late. He'd seen it… and then it all made sense… well, it was not _sensible_ , but it was understandable.


	10. Told You

He knelt down beside the couch, putting a hand on her back.

"Christine," he sang in his most captivating voice, "look at me."

"Nuh-uh." Came her stifled reply.

"Look at your husband, Christine. You know that he loves you, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Then why won't you trust me? Come now, look at me..."

"Did you see?"

"See what?"

"You _did_." She groaned, moving her head away from the cushions, but keeping her hands to her face.

"I did what?"

"You saw it."

"Saw what?"

Christine gave another groan, stretching her legs over the couch and peeking at him from between her fingertips.

"The _thing_ on my _face_."

"Which thing? You have several things on your face. More things than I have… I am quite jealous of it sometimes. I do wonder what it would be like to have a nose."

"You know which thing."

"I am sorry, my dear, I have no idea."

"Why are you teasing me?"

"I am not. Move your hands, Christine."

She shook her head, pressing them harder against her face.

"If you do not move your hands, I will make you."

"Please don't."

"You need to trust me, Christine."

"I don't want to."

"You don't want to trust me?"

"No! Of course I want to trust you, I just… I don't want to move my hands. I don't… I don't want you to see _it_."

"Why not?"

"Because it's a flaw. Because I'm not perfect. Because I'm not beautiful. And if I'm none of those things then… then why am I here?"

And then she let out a screech, her hands flying into the air, and her knee jerking to the side. Erik had tickled her.

"I told you," he said, grabbing her wrists and pressing them into the back of the couch to keep her from bringing them back to her face. He tried not to laugh at the furious expression on her face but was, unfortunately, unsuccessful.

"How could you!"

"Is a husband not allowed to look at his wife's face?"

"When she says he can't!"

He sighed, moving closer to peer at the miniscule red mark with a critical eye. Christine wondered if this was how he felt when she gazed at him. She then realized that this was a horrible thing to compare to her husband's affliction.

"Do not cover your face again," he warned her, releasing one of her wrists, "it is necessary I examine it."

"Why?"

He ignored her, pulling at the skin beneath and above the offending blemish.

"You have been agitating it. That will only make it worse."

"But…"

"Do not speak; you have lost the privilege for now."

He couldn't stop her from _talking_! And yet when she looked at the very determined and stern expression on his face she realized that _yes_ , _yes he could_.

"I have a cream that will get rid of it in two days' time, pending that you follow additional instructions."

She was about to say something but she stopped herself, biting her bottom lip and nodding. There was no need for him to say 'you should've told me,' it was written in every golden fleck of his eyes and on every twisted feature of his face.

His gaze were suddenly drawn to the sight of her lips and embarrassment prompted them to follow back to her eyes in quick succession – oh, he wanted to kiss her… and yet he could not bear to be rejected by her, especially not now, after being so caught off guard by her sudden distance all due to an easily remediable bit of acne. Yet it softened his heart a little… at the thought that she had been worried of _him_ not finding _her_ beautiful. She truly _must_ be mad.

"I – " Christine started, and he glared at her for talking, she swallowed, nodding again… tears gathering up in her bright blue eyes. That did it… he broke, he could not stay angry with her, not after seeing those eyes glittering with tears.

"Oh, Christine," he said, caressing her face with his free hand… and suddenly realizing that he was still holding onto her other wrist, and rather too tightly for the both of their comforts. He loosened his grip and brought her wrist to him, gazing down at it.

"Did... did I hurt you?"

She shrugged, which he took to mean that, _yes, he had_.

He moaned, "Oh, Christine... I did not mean to, please believe me. Can you ever forgive Erik, the foul beast?"

She nodded and watched as he petted and caressed her wrist and then sheepishly placed a kiss upon it. It was a worshipful, reverent kiss, and he watched for her reaction, afraid that she would pull away from him at any moment. But she did not, and he closed his eyes, sighing into her hand and kissing there as well. And then he kissed each of her little fingers. And then he kissed the top of her hand, rubbing her knuckles with his thumb and then kissing those, too. He cautiously looked up at her again, gauging for her response – she smiled.

"Is this alright?" He asked kissing her palm again for measure and she nodded, "Oh, my dear wife, do not deny me your voice any longer. I am dreadfully sorry I told you not to speak, it was very wrong of Erik. He was upset; he should have been more patient with you, you who have been so good and gracious to him."

"I forgive you." She answered as he moved to sit beside her, taking her hand with him – pressing it to his cheek and placing even more pure, sweet kisses upon it.

"You are so beautiful to me, Christine. Nothing will ever change that. You are perfection… you are magnificent… you are divine." At every word he tentatively pressed light kisses over the inside of her wrist – then, to the surprise of them both, he kissed her cheek.

And he did not stop, trailing featherlike kisses up her temple, across her eyelids, down her nose, to her blemished cheek – he even kissed the terrible thing itself. She felt goosebumps rise on her arms, legs, and the nape of her neck, she wasn't entirely sure if it was from the excitement or the iciness of his lips, but it made her shiver. She knew what he was doing, comforting her as she comforted him, when she let him know she loved him spite of imperfection...

He loved her in spite of imperfection. He looked at her with questioning eyes as he came to her lips, his fingers twitching and his heart threatening to drum right out of his chest. He had never... ever... never even dreamed. Well, perhaps once. Alright, maybe... maybe twice. But his dead, twisted lips? _His_ seeking _hers_ out? Rejection hung menacingly over his head. And what if... oh God forbid, what if she died? What if he kissed his wife and she _died_? He was still fretting over having just trekked her precious, angelic face. And was she angry with him, he wondered? She did not look angry. Oh, no, but what if she was frightened? What if he had pushed for too much? What had he done? He couldn't do anything right it seemed! Anger and regret threatened to overtake him now.

"Erik..." His angel suddenly said. And then she was leaning forward... like he had sworn she'd done _that day_. Bringing her face closer to his with an encouraging shadow of a smile hanging on her lips. _Just one_ , _only one._ He wrung his hands, moving as timidly as a child and then daring to brush his lips against the bottom left of her mouth. His eyes immediately searched her face, making sure she continued to flush that lively pink and breathe – and she did! _No more_ , he told himself _, that is all._ But she was still inclining to him! Did she expect another? _One more then, if only because she wants another, but be it on her head if she dies! No! No, don't die. Please, whatever you do: scream, run, smack me, but_ do not die.

He brought a shaking hand to her cheek, and softly, unbelievably tenderly, as if the both of them may break and shatter into a million pieces at any moment (and he was fairly certain they would), he placed a kiss upon her upper lip. He sighed, as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders... or more accurately, as if he was finally putting down the weight of the world. That soft smile became a grin for a moment and she placed a hand on his forearm, coaxing him to try again. And then he did it – how? He was without a clue! But he did. His lips covered hers. Once, twice, three times, brief but heartfelt, just to make sure he was not dreaming. Something wet began to fall upon her face, Christine realized he must be crying. Her fingers began to explore his features, little soft touches at his temples and the outline of his jaw. His body became rigid at the sudden movement, her caresses were loving and yet the feeling alone of her hands on him made him fear they would be used to push him away.

And then he gasped in awe as she began returning kisses. Gentle, healing kisses: they were not hungry, they did not beg, they were not demanding, they did not crush. Yes, they were uncertain and clumsy, they were inexperienced and trembling, but they were filled with a love he had never known, a love that expected no more and no less than him, a love that addressed his _very soul_. These kisses longed to cradle the babe that a frightened mother did not dare look upon, they longed to clothe the poor child shivering in the cage at night in the camp of cruel gypsies, they longed to shield the terrified man as he grew to know power and consequence and madness, they longed to piece together the fragmented pieces of this _human being_ 's heart. These kisses were denied hugs and dressed wounds and _forgiveness_. And her eyes were open, unwilling to turn away from him – for these were not the sort of kisses you closed your eyes for. His breath was torn and shaky as more tears rolled down his deformed cheek, he murmured powerlessly, "Help me, please, help me, hold me."

He had never asked her so earnestly before. She could not deny him, and thus she put a hand on the back of his head and her other arm around the shoulders that had begun to tremble so violently with all-too-familiar sobs. She held onto him tighter and told him she loved him a million times until at last he calmed.


	11. Names

"You are an angel, Christine – or a madwoman… for no one could ever love me as you have unless they were heavenly or insane." He said as she wiped a handkerchief gently beneath his eyes, ridding him of the last streak of tears.

"I could say the same about you. I don't know how you stand me sometimes, I'm so childish…" She affectionately tucked the kerchief back into his side pocket.

"Oh, no, Christine, no, my dear, dear wife. You let me kiss you, you let Erik kiss your perfect face and lips, look at you now! – how you've wiped his tears away, his unworthy tears! – no, you are a saint, Christine, a _saint_. How is it possible? How is it not a dream? Have I died, Christine? Is this Heaven? Not... not even his mother... Christine... you are a saint."

She shushed him, shaking her head as he looked up at her, "I ignored you all because of a silly little blemish today, I don't think that classifies as saintly."

"No, Christine. I do not blame you. You have become, I think, so used to being the angel to my demon in everything… in appearance and manner, you have made unrealistic standards for yourself… no, I do not blame you, Erik has probably done nothing to keep you from thinking such things, he is very dramatic, and to him, well… you _are_ quite perfect, how could you not be to him? – but it is not because you do not have faults, it is simply because of who you are. You are the kindest, most generous, most loving, most beautiful woman to have ever existed. And the faults that you do have – and I am very reluctant to admit that you have them – but what you do have are only very small things and compared to myself… they are nothing. Erik is a fault with few perfections; you are a perfection with few faults. Hush, I know, you do not like it when I say such things – but it is simply the way it is. I think, my precious Christine, that when you saw this unexpected flaw, you were worried about your position, as any normal human being would be, because how can you be the perfect one if you are susceptible to imperfection?"

"I sound very sad and pathetic."

"Humanity is very sad and pathetic, and I am sorry to tell you but you _are_ human, my wife."

"Erik, how did you become so… knowledgeable about so much, how do you understand so much... sometimes I feel like you know me better than I know myself... and yet... you did not… you have never really been around people, but you know them so well…" She worried he may be offended, but he only sighed and sat up a little to rest his forehead against hers momentarily.

"Your husband is a very reflective man, Christine. He thinks constantly, he can never get a moment's rest without thinking _,_ studying, or understanding _something_. Even himself. He does not like thinking of himself, of course – it distresses him… he knows there is much that is wrong with him and he is powerless to fix it though he tries – he tries for you, you know. But yes, I observe people, I listen to their stories… I do not know everything, but I know enough."

Christine thought for a moment – he can probably hear anything and everything in the opera house. It made sense for him to have examined people, to have listened to them, and to have tried to understand them. And he hadn't always lived in these cellars – M. Khan was proof of that. And she knew Erik really was a well-learned and fairly analytical person – he thought too much, it was like he had multiple voices in his head all as brilliant as could be making very valid-seeming arguments 24/7 about everything. Christine had wondered if that was why he spoke in third person. In fact, just a little bit before the Persian had visited, she had asked him something about that. She had been sitting next to him while he read a fairytale to her – she loved whenever he would read to her, he could make every character come to life: man, woman, or child, he could make the most fantastic voices, sometimes he would even make sound effects like a bird tweeting or a fire crackling or a river rushing.

"How do you do that?" She'd asked.

"Do what?"

"All of those noises, and the voices."

"Mimicry."

"Can you mimic my voice?"

The corner of his mouth twitched in a smirk that would've terrified anyone if they had not been Christine, and then he said, "Can you mimic my voice?" It was as if she had heard an echo, as if she had spoken herself, in fact for a moment she had wondered if she actually _had_ said it – if she had simply repeated her question, but it did not come from her, it had come directly from him, it had _had_ to be him. Her eyes widened and she clapped her hands in excitement.

"Do it again!"

"Do it again!" He repeated, watching her with a rather amused expression as he rested the side of his head on his hand.

"That is… just... spectacular! But how do you do it?"

"Long years of practice." He said in his own melodic voice… she wondered for a moment if that was his real voice. But then, what is a 'real' voice?

"Is that how you are so good at everything?"

He shrugged, "There are some things I am not good at – like being beautiful. You do that very well, Christine."

Christine shook her head, "You're wrong. You are one of the most beautiful people I know."

"Yes, Erik makes quite the Don Juan, does he not?"

She winced at the memory of the last time he'd said that, and he must have noticed, and suddenly feeling quite bad about it, patted her arm.

"Forgive me, my wife. I should not have said that. Let's finish this story now, hm?"

"I forgive you." She said, wrapping her arms around one of his as continued to read, but it was not long before she interrupted again, "Erik."

"Yes, Christine?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"As if I could stop you from doing anything you set your mind to – yes, what would you like to ask?"

"Why do you talk in third person sometimes?"

"Do I talk in third person?"

She nodded against his sleeve – the tone in his voice made it evident that he had not needed to clarify whether or not he spoke in third person, but was, in fact, quite aware of his peculiar habit. Christine expected he would not answer, but then he sighed.

"Does it bother you?" He glanced at her, watching carefully... _just a dog willing to die at her feet_.

"No," she mused, "No, it's just... just the way you are, and that's alright. I'm only curious, I suppose. Do _you_ know why you do?"

"I have my... theories, but I am not sure, Christine – I have lived a very long time on my own, but I know that is not the prime reason. I find that I do it most often when I feel great emotion or when I wish to separate myself from situations that would be otherwise deemed... _uncomfortable_. Or, occasionally, I find myself doing so when I want you to relate to me, to see me as not the Angel of Music or the Phantom of the Opera or any other sort of otherworldly being, but as your ordinary Erik. Erik is yours, you know, I have had many names and I have been many things, but Erik is yours."

"You once told me that you chose that name by chance." He stiffened a little.

"I did."

"So, you have a different name? One I do not know?"

"I do not know it either."

"You do not know your birth name?"

"No." He said, "I am not entirely sure if I was even given one."

"Oh, my dear!" She cried, rubbing his shoulder and kissing his sleeve, "Didn't your mother ever tell you? Her furniture is here, you must have met her again at some point."

"Christine... Erik's mother... his poor mother... she did not... we were never... just know that as far as I am aware, I was not given a name."

Her eyes began filling with tears then, "I am so sorry."

"Do not cry for your Erik, Christine."

"It just isn't fair. To not even name you!"

"It probably would not have been something very pleasant any way… with my devil's visage."

"Oh, Erik! That's so sad. _I_ would have named you."

"I know you would have, Christine, you are far more gracious than the entirety of humanity put together. I do wonder what you would have named me."

"Erik is a good name for you."

"It is Scandinavian."

"Like me."

"Like you." She had wondered a few times if he had chosen it specifically for her, but then... M. Khan seemed to call him Erik as well and did not reference him in any other way. Besides, she was a bit too nervous to ask him in case it turned out he really hadn't and he thought her silly for thinking such a thing.

"It would depend on your surname, I think."

"I do not have a surname." Her heart gave a little pang.

"Then for imagination's sake we shall say you have _my_ surname."

"You do not have a surname either, wife."

"Oh… hm. I did wonder about that. Well, ah, we shall say you have my maiden name."

"If it should please you."

"Erik Daaé – that does not sound too bad. I have always been fond of the name 'Victor' though. Victor Daaé. I think it would suit you very well, and I would hope that you would find strength and courage from it."

"You are very poetic, Christine."

"Or I would call you David; because it means 'beloved' and I would want you to know that you are always loved."

"David Daaé sounds rather discordant to me."

"Me as well; it would need to have something in the middle, like David Johannes."

"I am sure if I had had you as my mother, Christine, Erik would have been a very happy child."

"I do not know why a mother would not love her son, no matter what he looks like. It simply does not make sense."

"The world does not make sense, my dear."

"No, it does not. I feel so sad sometimes, Erik, thinking of how renowned and celebrated you should be when instead you live here, underground and hidden in the dark."

"As do I. But I have you, Christine, and you are enough light to last me for an eternity."

"Have you ever thought of moving above?" She asked then, she knew he did but the unspoken question was quite clear to her husband: _will_ _ **we**_ _ever live above?_ He grew very quiet then, making her worry that she had upset him.

"Erik?"

"Yes," he said slowly, "I have thought of it."

"And?"

"Perhaps, one day… I have often dreamed of doing so, as you well know. And I am sure it would make my Christine quite glad to live where she can see the blue sky whenever she would like. But it would be very far from people. As secluded if not more so than living here."

"I understand."

"Then yes, Christine, one day, Erik will do it and move above. But he must have time – you must give him time."

"Of course." Christine gave his arm a squeeze before continuing, "Erik, what would you have named me, if you had named me?"

"Christine."

"Yes, but, if I were not Christine."

"You can only be Christine."

"Are there any other names you like?"

"Erik."

"You could not name me Erik!"

"Which is why you would be named Christine."

"Are there any other names you like _besides_ Erik or Christine?"

"No."

"Oh…"

The disappointment in her voice was too much for him, and so he made an exasperated sound that she pretended to ignore before telling her solemnly, "Katarina."

"Katarina? That's a pretty name."

"It is the name of a church in Sweden. Did I tell you I once went to Sweden, Christine?"

She shook her head, though it would not surprise her if he had traveled everywhere and anywhere.

"I went with the gypsies. They wanted to rob the church."

"That's horrible."

"I was going to help them… I was often the mastermind behind most of their robberies. It is an odd thing to be threatened for the sake of your genius, but alas! I was brutally so. Do forgive me, Christine, that must sound very unpleasant to hear."

"It is good for me to learn about you, Erik, even if things are... unpleasant." _Was that not the greatest understatement?_

He looked at her warily – nervously, before continuing, "Nevertheless, I was going to help them and then... the priest. He was... kind to me, gave me bread. I remember that it did not sit well with my stomach, but I was grateful to have _something_ in my stomach. I do think, Christine, that that was the only holy man to have ever not dubbed me the Spawn of the Devil. I was very grateful for that, so I warned him. Besides, I did not want them to rob the church for fear they might desecrate it. It was a beautiful building, designed by Jean de la Vallée. There were quite a few errors, but then, I cannot blame the original designer as the church had been burned down some centuries ago and rebuilt by idiots. It was still a beautiful building; you would like it, Christine."

"I am glad you warned the priest."

"They killed him and beat me within an inch of my life... fortunately, they spared Katarina."

"Oh, Erik!" Christine started to cry then, bringing her arms around his neck instead to pull him close, "Not enough words can express to you how sorry I am!"

"It is not your fault. Do not cry, Christine."

"I wish I could go back in time and make it so you never had to go through any of that – I would take you away and I would love you and hold you and give you kisses and hugs whenever you asked for them. Oh, my poor Erik, how could the world be so cruel?"

"It is a fallen world."

"That is no excuse."

"Do not worry your pretty head over it."

"How can I?"

"We will sing and that will take poor, sweet Christine's mind off of these forgotten and terrible things. Yes, come, my wife, we will sing now."

And they sang all through the afternoon and much of the evening – forgetting their sorrows and regrets. Erik nearly always knew what to do for Christine when she needed him, sometimes she felt bad about it. _He_ was the one that needed someone, _not her_. She did comfort him, feeling that it was never quite as well as he did for her, but she hoped it was enough.

"Erik," she suddenly wondered, "what was the name of the priest?" He only smiled at her and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"Goodnight, dear Christine – have pleasant dreams."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Katarina kyrka (n.) one of the major churches in central Stockholm, Sweden. The original building was constructed in 1656–1695. It has been rebuilt twice after being destroyed by fires.


	12. His Glorious Goldfish

"You would be such a good father." She said suddenly, tracing a finger down his face. He made a sound similar to a snort at her statement, chancing to give her a soft peck on the cheek and shaking his head.

"Really, you would be wonderful, you would tell the very best stories and play the most beautiful music and sing the sweetest lullabies and you could teach a child so much, and you would be perfect to come to if they were sad or needed comfort."

"No child should have to have a corpse for a father, Christine." _An emotionally-stunted,_ mad _corpse at that._

"But you would not be a corpse to them, you would just be Papa."

"It is a very pretty thought, but not a realistic one."

"Why not?"

"Erik would not know what to do with a child."

"You do well enough with me."

"Oh, but Christine, you are not a child." He kissed the corner of her mouth to make his point and she felt goosebumps rising on her skin again.

"Yes, but I am very childish sometimes, and you always seem to know what to do when that happens."

"Because Erik knows his Christine, he would not know a child… would not understand one. He was never a child, Christine, he has always ever been very, very old." _I disagree,_ she thought _, I don't think you ever stopped being a child._

"Well, you wouldn't have to raise one on your own, you know, you would have me."

"Would I?"

"I suspect so, seeing as it would probably be _our_ child." She felt her cheeks warm at the thought of that – having a child with Erik? It was a strange thing to think of indeed. He did not respond but stared at her in amazement as her blush deepened, and then he sprung up and left her there all flustered and unsure. He disappeared into his room for a little bit, she was almost afraid she had upset him again and he wouldn't return… but then he came back with a small container in hand. He gave it to her and inclined his head.

"Once in the morning after you bathe, and once in the evening before you go to bed – do not touch your face for any other reason save for applying this, understood? And if you cannot help yourself, then, so help _me_ , Christine, I will put a cone on your head."

She almost giggled at that, but then saw his very serious expression and nodded, taking the container, "I understand."

"Good girl – go on and put it away and then come back to your Erik for supper – he has a surprise for you."

Christine did as she was told, taking a moment to fix her hair up and then gladly swooping in to take her husband's arm, "You said something about a surprise?"

"I thought perhaps we could have something of a picnic tonight, Christine, would you like that?" She grinned widely, jumping up and down at the thought.

"Oh, Erik, I would _love_ that!" He nodded, retrieving his mask, gloves, hat, and the picnic basket he had set on the table. He was happy to receive the kiss he did not get this morning before covering his face. Christine quickly fetched his overcoat for him, clasping it for him when it was over his shoulders. It was a beautiful cloak – he had given it to her many times when they had gone out together, draping it over her and rubbing her chilled arms (though his hands were as cold as ice, even when wearing his gloves). He always wore so much, even when he was leisurely relaxing at home – she wondered if he was unbearably uncomfortable all of the time. She had only seen him once without his jacket, vest, and tie – it had been the weirdest thing… she could have laughed by how scandalous it had seemed to her. Yet, she had woken up in the middle of the night feeling peckish and so decided to tiptoe out to get herself something eat. She had done it plenty of times before, and Erik seemed to know whenever she did as well as whatever it was she had eaten, no matter how great or small the quantity.

"Did you like those strawberries?" He'd asked her the first time she had done. She'd paled considerably, worried he would be angry with her. But he only chuckled, "It's perfectly alright, Christine, you are the lady of the house after all. Eat whatever you would like whenever you would like."

And so she did just that. Sometimes it was strawberries other times an apple or plum, and occasionally she would search out for chocolate. Christine loved the chocolate – it made her think of her Papa and when he would bring her back small pieces after leaving for long amounts of time. This night, however, she had settled on getting an apple, just something simple and refreshing. What she had been astounded to see was Erik's bedroom door wide open. He always kept it closed, and usually locked (not that she would ever try to open it for any reason anyway). It was pitch black in that room, even while there were lamps turned on and glowing right outside of it! – it was as if the light was just as afraid to be near that complete darkness. It was terrifying. She had been about to retreat when he emerged from the chasm, carrying a stack of papers she presumed to be his compositions and then glancing at her as if he was not surprised at all.

"Out for a midnight snack?" He'd asked softly as he sat on bench and began writing something. Christine noted that he sounded quite tired. _When was the last time he'd slept_? She had thought.

"Yes," she squeaked and then cleared her throat when she saw him give her a questioning look. It was then she realized that he was not wearing his usual formal ensemble. He was dressed in a very simple white shirt, a stark contrast to the black suspenders and the dark trousers it was tucked in. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing extremely thin, pale forearms, and he did not wear his dress shoes but a pair of snug black socks. He looked casual… and he did not cut an unattractive figure. He was abnormally skinny, but his shoulders and waist made a pleasing if not narrow triangle shape, and his legs were lengthy, contributing to his elegant and often imperial bearing. Christine began pondering on what he may have looked like if he did not... look as he did. Raoul had once asked her if she would still love him if Erik had been born with an ordinary man's face, she had told him not to tempt fate. But she herself admitted that she (no matter how hard she tried not to) wondered what would have happened had Erik been born normal and still loved her (because she doubted that he would probably notice her with how stunning he would be with all of his best traits and magnificent talents). She imagined that he would have had a very aristocratic face, with a long nose and sharp, noble features. She thought he would probably have looked very Roman and regal. She had not realized that she'd been staring at him for a whole ten minutes, not until he looked up from his work and said rather matter-of-factly:

"Christine, you have been staring at me for over ten minutes now."

"Oh," her face flushed, "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize." It had been three weeks since she had told him she loved him – the memory burned in both of their minds.

"Erik – "

"Christine – "

She cleared her throat, "Sorry."

"No, _I_ apologize. Is there something I can help you with, my dear? If you wanted to get something to eat, please, don't let me stop you."

"Oh… um, do you… want something, Erik?"

It took him a moment to process what she was saying – at first he had thought she was asking why he was there, but no, he realized, she did not mean that, though he was sure she was probably curious. He glanced at her up and down, she was in her dressing gown and nightclothes, looking particularly cute with her arms wrapped around her and that expectant expression in her big blue eyes and one of her bare feet sticking out from underneath her dress – she truly had the most adorable little feet – yes, there was definitely something he wanted… he wanted to bound her up in his arms and press kisses to her golden curls and never let go of her again – he felt like a scoundrel. It occurred to him then that what she had meant was, 'do you want me to bring you something to eat, too?' and further, that he had been gazing at her long enough for her to grow confused and uncomfortable.

"No, I am perfectly fine, Christine, thank you… I think I will retire now. I hope you have a pleasant evening."

"Wait," she said, moving forward and pinching his sleeve, trying not to overtly stare at his bare arms or neck. Those arms _–_ so thin and... now that she was closer, she thought she saw the light definitions of scars. And then there was his shirt, how it was unbuttoned at the top, exposing more of his long neck. There was no doubt that his face was a horrid thing, but the rest of him did not seem too... inhuman. He had skin like any other man, even if that skin was a peculiar sallow-yellowish colour and looked as if it was stretched far too tightly over his bones. He had legs and arms: and he had muscle and bone in those legs and arms. He had a chest, and in that chest was a beating heart... one that he claimed beat for her. He looked down at her, his hands suspended slightly, twitching with nervousness. The last time she had said that, she had begun to tell him that she loved him.

"Are you alright? I mean, you seem very tired. Are you having trouble sleeping?"

Oh, what a sweet, dear thing his Christine was, asking after him and worrying about him like a proper, little wife. She shifted nervously under the intense look of adoration he gave her then. She needed to get used to those looks. Her hand moved from his sleeve to rest on his forearm, and she gasped aloud at how cold it was, just like his hands, and she could not stop herself from enclosing another hand around his other arm.

"Erik! You are positively freezing!" He was about to pull away with a sad groan but then she ran her hands up and down his forearms to the tips of fingers and he was sufficiently distracted, "Surely, you'll catch a cold!" He shook his head, watching as she suddenly wrapped her arms around him tightly.

"I am simply cold, Christine, I do not know why... but I will not get sick, do not worry."

There had not been any other reason for holding his waist and pulling him close other than trying to warm him... at least, that is what she told herself while she marveled at the feel of his bony ribs and chest beneath her cheek and the sound of his thudding heartbeat. It was odd to have a husband. _He feels quite nice_ , she concluded as he settled on a very similar conclusion about her. They could not help but think back on the last time they were embracing, when she did not accept his offer of freedom... when she chose to stay. They both lingered on parallel thoughts… _is this what it's like to be married and to hold your spouse in your arms?_ They wore wedding rings, but they were fairly aware that neither of them were very sure on what it really meant to be married. Erik had only seen marriage from afar, as some sort of idealistic dream of supreme happiness: it was what all truly normal and happy men (and women) wanted, right? And Christine had only just begun to entertain thoughts of marriage when Erik had... well, stolen her, and as for her basis, she hadn't been in the prolonged company of a couple since she was nine years old. It was all very new to the both of them.

"Are you any warmer?" Christine asked him and he chuckled, her breath catching when she could feel it rumble in his chest. It was a remarkable sensation.

"Do I _feel_ any warmer to you?"

"No," she pouted, "you do not. Why is that?"

"As I have said before – I am simply cold; there is nothing to be done about it. But I appreciate your exceptionally valiant efforts to warm me."

It was unfortunate and strange that rather than her warming him she had actually begun to feel cooler – the last time she hugged him she had not started to feel so cold, she wondered if it was because she was wearing less – and then Christine realized she was wearing less and embracing Erik, who was also wearing less. She 'ahem-ed' and let go, tucking her hair behind her ear and looking up at her husband nervously.

"Ah, goodnight, Erik."

"Goodnight, Christine – have pleasant dreams."

He bowed his head, grabbing his papers and practically scurrying to his room. She felt the desire to have something warm then and so decided rather than getting an apple she would make herself a rare cup of hot chocolate. That night she fell asleep on his chair, curled up with the cup discarded on the floor – a little leftover chocolate dripping onto the carpet. Erik had cleaned it all up for her before she awoke, taking a moment to lay a quilt upon her as well – she had reacted immediately, snuggling and sinking deeper into the chair. He was half-inclined to exclaim 'awwww,' and Erik had _never_ in the whole of his _entire life_ felt the desire to exclaim 'awwww.' Christine had told Erik that she was not his pet, yet sometimes, even now, as he led her out of the ground and to the awaiting carriage outside the Palais Garnier… he could not help but feel like she was – in the most human sense, of course (mostly) – his adorable, precious pet: his sweet songbird, his curious kitten, his loveable lamb, his glorious goldfish… well, perhaps not that last one, but a pet to him nonetheless...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Discarded pet analogies: his charming chipmunk, his luscious llama, his saucy squirrel, his adorable agouti, his beauteous barracuda, his titillating turkey, his delightfully darling ducky, his felicitous fox, his mini mouse, his heroic heron, his zesty zebra, his kickin' kangaroo...


	13. Of Her Happiness

He had been planning this for weeks now, almost two months, and only this afternoon tied up some of the last few strings. It was not _entirely_ ready yet, there were still some things he needed to adjust and bring in, but he wouldn't be able to do that without her getting _some_ inkling, and so it was best to just show her now. Oh, but he couldn't deny that he was feeling... rather nervous about it all. The closer that they came to their destination, the stranger he started to act – and she was noticing. Christine assumed it would be some far-off park or lake he had found; he had taken her to four different ones already. But something about the way he casually glanced out the window (he never looked out the window) and how his fingers twitched told her something curious was going on.

"Are you alright, Erik?"

"What, my dear?" He sounded distracted, "Yes, of course I am alright. What a silly question."

"Well, it's just that you are acting a bit… peculiar."

"No, I'm not."

She raised a dainty brow, leaning closer with a look of distrust, "Your fingers are twitching."

"They do that."

"Yes, but they do it most when something is the _matter_."

"Nothing is the matter, Christine, stop being so nosy." He bit out, he sounded like a petulant child.

She sighed, resting her head on his shoulder, "Alright, I will leave it be, Erik… so long as you tell me _eventually_."

He patted her hand, neither confirming nor denying that her suspicions were justified. Over the rest of the ride, she took to gazing out his side of the window with her head on his shoulder and her hand on his arm. At one point she became quite fascinated with his overcoat, holding the edge and enjoying the feel of it running between her fingers – it was made out of a nice, smooth material. And then she moved her hand to rest on his shoulder beneath the cloak, using it as another cushion for her head.

"Are we there yet?" Christine asked, beginning to feel a little drowsy. They had been going wherever they were going for what seemed the past hour. She hoped Erik hadn't brought any perishable foods.

"Soon enough, my dear."

"Where are we going? It seems very far for only a picnic."

"It is."

"Where is it?"

"It's a surprise. Take a nap if you must, I will wake you when we arrive." She could find no reason for arguing with that offer and gladly allowed herself to doze away on her husband's shoulder. Just as she was beginning to dream, she felt a hand on her cheek, and long fingers carefully tracing her lips and jaw.

"Christine…" she heard, "Christine… we are here."

She moaned, burrowing her face into his arm, "But I just fell asleep."

"It's been half an hour, up you go."

"I thought you said I was adorable when I slept, why would you want to wake me up?"

"Well, yes, you _are_ adorable, but we have arrived at our destination and it is time to have a picnic with your husband."

She sighed, opening her eyes and sitting up, feeling heavy and lethargic. He opened her side of the door, a gust of cold wind waking her up a bit. It was starting to turn dusk outside, and when she peered out she could see the twinkling of the very first stars. Erik left the cab and came around to her side, holding out his hand and helping her on her way down to the ground. They were at the beginnings of a path near a pleasant forest area, and by the lights in the distance she assumed not so very far from a village.

"My lady?" He gave her his arm, "There is a delightful glade not so far off, and that is where we are heading. I hope you do not mind walking, my dear."

"When do I ever?" She relished in being able to breathe in the fresh air, to smell the pine, to look up and see the great expanse of the sky, to walk the narrow path of a forest. One of the first times they went on a picnic had been a surprisingly frigid summer night – even Erik commented on how strangely chilly it was for the season and had almost brought her back down for it. It was only at her continuous persistence (and her pleading eyes) that she was alright with it that he allowed them to stay. They went to one of those aforementioned lakes, it was quite icy and there was hardly any life around save for the two of them... at least that Christine could spot, but it was beautiful. They'd walked around for awhile at her behest, it didn't matter to him as long as she was beside him and happy, but eventually her hunger got the better of her and they settled down on the soft grass. She devoured her dinner and then propped up on her elbows to watch the sunset reflected on the glistening water, while Erik watched the sunset highlight her beautiful hair. He'd had a mask on even if no one was anywhere near them – he was simply uncomfortable with the idea of going into the outside-world without one. But it was such a mask that it did not cover his mouth and so allowed him to eat, even if he still did not eat much.

She pulled another grape from the small bunch she had beside her and began picking away at it absentmindedly. Erik wondered why she didn't like the skin so much. What was wrong with it? It made him feel insecure. Sometimes (meaning constantly) he felt like he could do nothing right for her, it was quite discouraging. And then her voice broke the silence, stealing him away from his pity-party.

"When I was little, my Papa would come home and sit in his big blue chair – he'd give me a chocolate or a present or tell me a new rhyme or silly joke or play me a merry song he'd picked up while he was away, and then he'd ask me if we had any grapes and if not we'd go straight out to the market and he'd buy a whole bushel of them. We'd go back home and he'd remove the skin from every one before he ate it. I imagine that's where I got it from." She shivered then and sat up, wrapping the cloak he'd given her tighter around her arms. He had not been entirely sure how to respond to her admission (though a part of him was glad that her peeling wasn't due to anything being necessarily wrong with the grape but because it was simply the way she had been taught to eat it), yet he couldn't help but feel as if she was expecting him to say something... that she _needed_ him to say something.

"It makes sense for you to have picked up something like that from your father, most persons' habits can be traced to their childhood – it is a critical time for a human being; it is, after all, the making of the foundation of their character. It is understandable that you, being so fond of your father and seeing him in the idealistic light that you do, mimicked an eating habit that he likely picked up from some significant individual in _his_ adolescence... especially now that you desire perhaps nothing more than for him to be here with you. I have heard mimicry is the highest form of flattery, it is very likely that it is one of the highest forms of tribute as well. You keep him alive by peeling those grapes." She turned a little to keep him from seeing her teary eyes, the cold nipping at her burning face all the more, "Christine?" But then she wiped at her face in that very discreet way and he knew, "Oh, Christine, forgive Erik, he did not mean to make you cry, dim-witted old fool that he is. He should not have said anything."

"Oh, no, really, it's alright – thank you," she took the handkerchief he offered and dabbed at her cheeks, "don't feel bad, what you said was very good and I thank you for it. It was beautiful, actually, towards the end. You are right, I think, in that it helps me feel like he is here. It was nice to understand it in the way that you explained it." She laughed softly, handing back the handkerchief, "Thank you, really. For taking me here, too. It's been so nice... despite the cold and silence. It's terribly strange, you would think being the summer there would be a few ducks or something, but there's nothing. I think we may be the only two things here alive right now besides the plants."

"Nonsense."

"What?"

"I have been watching a mare for approximately four minutes now," _and listening carefully to the owner trailing behind her_ , "Do you see her, Christine? Right across the lake." She furrowed her brows, looking in the direction he inclined to but finding nothing.

"I can't find it, it might be too dark for me to see." He moved to kneel behind her, pointing his finger directly at the creature ambling along the edge of the water.

"Right there – perhaps she will be no more than a shadow to you, but you _should_ be able to see her." She squinted her eyes, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of _anything_. And then she saw it. It was a breathtaking sight as the mare bent her head to drink at the water, her long hair falling to cover her eye and nose – Christine assumed that her coat was brown, but Erik assured her it was a deep red dun.

"Do you think she is wild?"

"Perhaps, there is always the possibility, no? Wild, free, and quite old – yes, I daresay, she has roamed very far, my dear. I believe those hooves have traveled the silky sands of the Arabian Desert and the harsh tundras of Siberia, it is no wonder she is so thirsty." He sent off waves of cold, but his breath was warm against her neck and ear – that, as well as the desire to hear what he may say next made her lean against him, "She has been looking for something, ah... her child. They were cruelly parted from one another long ago, but she has since heard word of his survival in a very warm and friendly Parisian family. He must have been a very brave and strong colt indeed – it is extremely difficult for foals to adapt to the absence of their mothers, he probably suffered greatly for their separation. She has come here... in hopes of meeting him once again."

" _Will_ they meet, Erik?" She gripped his arm, "Oh, tell me they do."

He shushed her, "Be very quiet now, Christine. Watch." She suddenly heard a noise – like a call. And then she spotted a smaller figure walking the path far ahead, with what seemed to be another very dark horse following it. The figure was a man! He said something she could not understand, but it caught the mare's attention and then she was moving towards him. He patted the sides of both of the horses. The mare nickering before resting her neck over the crest of the other. The other whinnied and they began to walk side-by-side behind the man, occasionally playing with or nickering at the other excitedly, while he started back the direction he came.

"Erik..."

"Yes, that is her son."

"But he is so large – larger than her."

"He is grown up now; when they last saw each other he was no more than a yearling."

"Who is the man?"

"I can only assume he is the master of the household that took in the foal – I am sure he has been keeping an eye out for the mother, it is probable that he was the one that set up the meeting."

"How wonderful! I am glad he helped them find each other."

"As am I. However, I do believe that is our cue – time to go." She tried to help him clean up the picnic (much to his quiet displeasure), and then offered to give him back his cloak, "No, my dear, I am quite alright. Why don't you wear it until we get home, hm? I would loathe for you to catch a cold." She gave a sheepish thanks and took his arm.

"This was so nice, Erik. I can't thank you enough for taking me, and for that lovely tale."

"I am glad you enjoyed it."

"It _was_ just a tale, wasn't it?"

He shrugged, "Stranger things have happened."

"Oh, don't tease me. Tell me, was it real or not?"

"What do you want it to be?"

"It doesn't matter what I want it to be, only what it actually is."

"Christine, I assure you, the _only thing_ that matters is what _you_ want it to be." She sighed, her thoughts flying, _If the mare belonged to the man, wouldn't she have had some reins like the other horse had? Or perhaps it was because she was older and the man simply knew she didn't need them to follow. She had come immediately when he called out to her. But then... the way that the two horses had greeted one another, they were ecstatic, as if they had not seen each other in forever. And it was such a beautiful story..._

"Fine, then it was real." He chuckled, patting her hand affectionately.

"My sweet and ever-so-romantic Christine."

Quirking an eyebrow at him, she saucily quipped, "Yes, well, you aren't all that practical yourself, _M. Phantom_." She wasn't sure if she was more relieved or terrified by the smirk he gave.

"Silly girl, I shall have you know that my middle name is practicality: the Phantom is a necessity not an accessory." _Erik Practicality... what?_ Her smile was growing by the second.

"Mm, yes, and _I_ am the Queen of England."

"What folly! – I think you and I both know you are nothing less than Empress regnant to the world, and _I,_ only your humble, obedient, very _practical_ , and eternally faithful servant." She giggled, smacking his arm lightly and then hugging it.

"No, for if I am Empress and you are my husband then that makes you Emperor – hardly a servant."

"Only Emperor consort, my dear, thereby changing nothing in my previous statement. For I would first and foremost be but Emperor of your happiness before I would have anything to do with governing the world – and very gladly so, might I add. Ah, and speaking of. Come, your majesty, your carriage awaits." He bowed low and graceful (making her giggle all the more) and then helped her up into the coach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, what has Erik been planning? Wait and see!
> 
> I'm still giggling over Erik Practicality What. I am way too easily amused.


	14. The Bumpy Road of Love

Erik realized they weren't very far off now, and in consequence, slowed his pace to gather his bearings. He watched her beside him, with that blissful smile on her face and her hair all done up prettily – he preferred it down, of course, but that did not change the fact that it was glorious. She was always unbelievably, magnificently gorgeous to him, but there was something about her smile that absolutely took his breath away... and it did nothing for his nerves. He should've stayed quiet until they got there, he was in no state to have conversation, but he opened his big mouth anyway, "Would you like to go out more often, Christine? You are so immensely happy when you are up here."

She furrowed her brow before giving his arm a squeeze, "You know I would."

"If you were to choose between this and me, what would you choose?"

She paused for a moment, stopping and shooting him an icy glare.

"How could you ask me something like that?"

"Ah…" he said, "so I thought." Christine could almost hear his self-pitying smirk, she longed to smack him upside the head… unfortunately, she was too short to make it really mean anything.

"What? What do you think?" She crossed her arms.

"I do not blame you, my dear, if given the choice between myself and the beauty I see before me now, I would not choose me either."

"You're impossible!" He watched astounded when his Christine actually growled and began marching off down the path, her arms crossed and her shoulders squared.

"You are going to get lost!" He called after her.

"At the moment I find that a much more appealing circumstance than walking with you!" She spat, moving faster and yelping when she nearly tripped on her skirts. He sighed, coming up to her side – it was not difficult for him to catch up to her.

"I was merely asking a question; you know I love you no matter what, even if you do not love me as much as I love you."

She whirled around, causing him to bump into her.

"But I _do_ , Erik. I love you so much that sometimes I feel like my heart may burst! I would choose you, Erik – I already have, haven't I? I could have left plenty of times, but I never have. Don't look at me like that! You know I could have and I would have had every right to, you've said so yourself! Don't you remember how afraid you were of M. Khan taking me away, well, Erik, I have news for you – we _did_ talk about me leaving. I bet he had a near-perfect plan, a _brilliant_ plan, and Raoul was beside him, too. The only problem was that I could not bear to leave you! I chose _you_. And I would do it again, even while you doubt me and ask terrible questions like that. What need have I for the sun or moon or stars or _air_ when I have you? I know it's hard for you to trust me, but that doesn't mean it's okay for you to _accuse_ me! Talk to me about your insecurities like you tell me to talk about mine. _Let_ me love you as much as you love me. That's what husbands and wives do. That's what _humans_ do! And guess what, Erik! – I'm sorry to tell you but _you_ are human _just_ as much as I am, no matter what you may look like or how much you _do_ or _don't_ want to be. I do not know what our future holds, it has never been an easy thing for me to foresee… all I know is that I cannot have one without you. Now, if you will excuse me," she ripped the (unusually light) basket from his hands, " _I_ am going to have a picnic."

But before she could start moving away again, he had launched himself at her, clutching at her and crushing her to his frame. He was sobbing, but no words came from him. He was unable to say anything for shame... and, to a certain degree, anger. At both her and himself. He wanted to shake her and lock her away forever for ever thinking of leaving him, for being _close_ to ever thinking of leaving him, he wanted to throw her to the ground for yelling at him and laying so bare his humanity. It was true, he did not _want_ humanity, as much as he desperately craved it. Because if he was human... then he could be hurt. And he _was_ hurt – all of the time. There was no escape from the pain and ignoring it, telling himself that he did not belong to humanity and to the possibility of _pain_ made it easier to be numb and forget about it. Hate and madness was far more preferable to vulnerability and rejection. But then he wanted to fall down at her feet and press kisses to the hem of her dress just as he had done so long ago. He wanted to beg endless forgiveness but he wanted her to throw it back in his face and tell him that she hated him and could not stand him. He wanted to cut out his heart and give it to her, just so she knew that it was completely hers to crumble in her perfect, little hands. He wanted to die. But she would have none of these things – none of them, and so all he could do was hold onto her... the only thing – he was quite sure – left tethering him to this cruel, hateful world. He kept waiting for her to say the word, to let him go, to just let him fall away... but she would not let him. Because she _loved_ him. What a horrible feeling it was to be _loved_ , and yet it was the most wonderful thing he had ever experienced in all of his wretched life.

"It's okay, Erik..." she said, dropping the basket and returning his desperate embrace, "It's alright, I'm here. Your Christine who loves you is here. No, Erik, I could never choose this over you. I would rather die than be forced to be without you. I love you."

"Why?" He cried, ripping her away from him and holding her at arm's length.

"Because I do. I need you, I... wouldn't know what to do without you. And you need me, too. Don't you?"

"More than you will ever know." He pulled her to him again, holding back a growl when he could not run his fingers through the hair he had just been admiring so profoundly. Instead he had to make himself content with her shoulders and back, moving his hands over them in an attempt to calm himself down. She held him close, pacifying him with sweet, loving words and coos.

"I..." he started at last, breathing shakily, "I am sorry."

"I forgive you." She whispered and he gasped, shaking his head like a madman and squeezing her tighter.

"How can you? I... I stole you, Christine! I threatened to murder your young man," _– your true love, as well as not to mention the entire audience in the Palais Garnier that night and then some_ , "I almost did. Did the daroga tell you, Christine? Did he tell you what I did?"

"He told me that you used to... that you were an assassin once, that you were sentenced to death. He told me that –"

"No, Christine! About the boy! The boy, did he tell you about the boy?"

"Raoul? He told me that Raoul was a count now; that he was still trying to save me, but M. Khan gave him my letter explaining the new circumstances. But that is all he told me of Raoul."

"He did not tell you then." _She sent that foul child a_ letter _! Without telling me?_ He felt himself spinning out of control, his heartbeat turning erratic and his hands twitching madly.

"What didn't he tell me?"

"Nothing!" He snapped, "nothing, nothing – he told you nothing!" He shook her then and she gasped, trying to pry herself away.

"Erik, just tell me! What's the matter with you?"

Erik pushed her violently from him, causing her to fall rather gracelessly and painfully to the ground. He ripped away his mask and dropped to his knees and bowed his head where he proceeded to moan and howl indignantly. Rubbing her now-aching side, her eyes widened with terror, apprehension, and concern. Cautiously, she knelt beside him, worst case scenarios flitting about in her mind.

"What didn't he tell me, Erik?" She repeated, but her voice was only a fearful, beseeching whisper.

"Erik did not free him, Christine. He did not."

"But... but you did! That's what you told me. You told me you freed him; you told me you would not kill him! I saw you take him with your friend, Erik. And who else would I be giving the letter to if not Raoul? M. Khan would not lie." He pulled on his hair, looking up at her and shaking his head.

"No, no, Erik did not kill your young chap, Christine! He would not. But... but he was worried. He was _afraid_ that you would not keep your promise, that _he_ would take you away. And Erik was _right_! You are leaving him! Why are you leaving me, Christine? You promised! Why do you hurt your poor Erik so!"

"Erik! What did you do to him?"

"Kept him... locked him away in the old dungeons. Oh, Christine, you must surely hate Erik now if you ever cared a whit for him!"

"How long?" She was gaining courage but only for the anger rising in her – she raised his face to hers, "How long did you keep him?"

"Only a few months until I knew for _certain_ that you would stay, and then I let him go immediately, Christine, I promise! Forgive me, oh, I am a complete and utter fool! But he was _right_ , Christine! You _are_ leaving Erik! I should have kept him locked up! Should have _killed_ him! Should have set the Siren on him like that trespassing fool of a brother! – " She remembered _that day_ , when he had come back inside, dripping wet... the Siren. Nadir had said Philippe had died.

"Erik, stop it! Stop it!" She yelled, "What _–_ what did you do to Raoul?" He trembled then and she started to well up with tears of her own. She sat down, rubbing her temples and shutting her eyes tightly, "Did you _–_ did you hurt him?"

" _Yes_."

She pinched the bridge of her nose, "How badly? Did you beat him?" _Oh, my poor, sweet Raoul – and if I am right your... your brother – you did not deserve this! It's my fault!_ she thought, _I do not know what I could have done! But I should have! What could I have done? Oh, I wish I knew._ Her thoughts were filled with various terrible images of her childhood friend _–_ cut up and bruised, dying and beaten, calling out her name in the darkness while Erik stood over him, proud and remorseless, "Did you mutilate him? Did you tear him apart? What did you do? Why did you do it? You didn't have to! You _knew_ you didn't have to! _You promised!_ You _promised_ you would not hurt him!"

She realized she was almost screaming now, and after looking over him again _–_ so helpless and pitiful _–_ she began breathing slowly, trying to see reason in the madness, praying to God to help her be the forgiving, patient person that Erik needed even if he did not deserve it. He was a broken man, a lost man. He was only sobbing now, nodding his head and then shaking it between different intervals. As if it couldn't have gotten any worse, she started to feel the first drops of rain. She sighed, putting her hands on his where he continued to tug at his hair. _No wonder it's so thin._ He flinched, reflexively smacking her hands away and quivering all the more. She let the tears run with abandon when she understood: Erik had expected her to hurt him. This would take longer than six months. Longer than six years. It would take the rest of her life and more to help this man. He was like a wild, beaten, and abused dog. She hushed him and tried once more to remove his hands from his head – when she succeeded, she soothed down his dark and very fine locks. He cringed at every touch with the same ferocity. How could he be so afraid of her? He would not even look at her, he only sat crouched like a slave or animal. How could this be the same man that had kissed her and comforted her and lavished affection upon her only hours ago? It just was not a good day, starting with that stupid zit and ending with this blow of harsh, cold, and wet reality.

"Erik..." She said as softly as she could manage, "Erik, it's raining, we need to get back to the coach."

He did not respond, he could only weep and mutter incomprehensible words. Christine sighed, bringing her hands underneath his arms and pulling, willing him to get up. She was not going to get sick because of this. _He_ was not going to sick because of this. At last, she was able to lift him and convince him to support himself a little.

"Erik, you have to help me help you. You have to walk. I know it's hard, but we need to get to the coach."

"It won't... it won't be there," he finally spoke, his beautiful voice raspy and filled with sheer exhaustion.

"What do you mean it won't be there?" He laughed then, a fragmented and mirthless sound, covering his eyes with a gloved hand.

"I... I was going to show you! It was going to be perfect! But then _no_!" He barked, "Erik had to go and ruin it! Because he _always_ ruins it!" He groaned, leaning against her heavily.

"Erik, I am going to fall over, you need to stand up. Now get a hold of yourself and explain to me in a language that I can understand not mad-incoherent-Erik-gibberish what you mean by 'the coach won't be there'."

"The basket," he mumbled, "the key is in the basket. I'll... I'll take you there, but get the key, Christine. It's in the basket." _Still incoherent, but at least it's something._

"The basket..." _You_ are _a basket_ , she thought as she hesitantly let go of him, "stay, Erik, just stay right there." She wiped the mingled tears and rain from her face as she stumbled over to the forgotten picnic basket. Inside there was no food but enough of her own clothes and a few necessities for two or three days and nights... she even thought she spotted a familiar-looking container of whatever cream Erik had given her earlier for her blemish. And among the various items, just as he had said, was a key. She closed the basket and grabbed his mask, dragging herself back to him where he stood in the rain like some sort of dejected puppy. He was _not_ a puppy. She was _not_ going to let him manipulate her like that, he was _not_ to pitied; he was a liar, a murderer, a villain, a criminal, and... and her husband – her legal, cold, wet, and tortured husband who probably needed her more than ever right now.

"I have the key." He began trudging away then, not willing to say anything or make eye contact with her. They seemed to walk for an eternity, lefts and rights and straightforwards as the rain poured harder; her legs were tired, her arms were tired, her eyes were tired, her husband was tired, everything was tired and achy and muddy and miserable. She just wanted to be _home_ , in her _bed_ – _sleeping,_ a part of her desperately hoped that wherever Erik was taking them there would be some super-quick way to spirit her home, like a magic carpet or something of the like. Well, imagine her surprise when at last they came across the large clearing, and in the middle of the clearing was a house... a beautiful, wonderful house with a cute, little stepping-stone path that led to the front door and pretty blue shutters and a magnificent garden with all of her very favourite flowers.

"Is this..." Christine choked on a sob, looking up at him as he simply continued to walk, his shoulders hunched as if all the weight of the world was on them, "is this what you wanted to show me? Is this... for us?" But then he collapsed without a word, right in front of her.

"Erik! Oh, Erik! Please, are you alright?" She turned his face: his eyes were half-closed, staring up at nothing, it terrified her, "No, Erik, do _not_ do this! Get up, come on, just walk a little further, we'll go inside and we'll get warm and then you can sleep, alright? But not yet. Get up. I _need_ you to get up!" This seemed to give him a little more strength. Clumsily, as if he were a fawn that had never walked a day in its life, he got up and started towards the house again with Christine supporting him, "That's right, Erik, you can do it. Just a little further and then we'll be inside." _  
_


	15. Lady of the House

Christine struggled for a moment to unlock the door, her hands were slippery and the rain and tears were falling into her eyes, blinding her sight. But then at last she heard the blessed click and was able to move inside. As soon as she was sure Erik was beside her she shut the door, only to be met with absolute darkness save for the glowing eyes of her husband – they were filled with an indescribable pain. But _why_? It wasn't as if she had beat him or even told him she was leaving, she had only sought for answers... even though she already knew them. She felt hurt and betrayed, yes, she was angry with him, he should've thought about how upset she would be before he decided to do something so... so idiotic, so heartless, so hurtful! And she was heartbroken over the knowledge that her Raoul and his poor brother – her dear, lovely, courageous Raoul whom she had once truly believed she would live the rest of her life with had suffered, even if indirectly, _because of her_. And then a memory struck in her mind, _not your fault –_ never _your fault._

Oh, she knew; she knew it was because of Erik and his own dreadful choices, but it couldn't stop her from looking back and trying to think of what she could've done to keep it from happening; such as, perhaps she could've demanded that Erik show her Raoul safe and free, it would've taken some coaxing but she was sure she could've convinced him somehow – or what if she had not been so lifeless those first couple of months? She had made Erik feel more insecure, but then... she felt he likely would've found _some_ way to feel as such if it was what he really wanted to feel. Erik was a complex man who wanted so much and yet did not dare to let himself have it whether because he would no longer be a victim or because he truly did not believe he deserved it or because he did not _know_ how to accept it: _It doesn't matter what I could have or couldn't have done,_ she concluded, _what matters is what I do now... what matters is how I pick up these dangerous and cutting pieces._ She wondered if this was how Nadir felt.

Suddenly, Erik blinked and there was light and he all but seemed to disappear. She immediately called out his name but received no response. There was an oil lamp resting beside her on a fashionable table underneath one of the front windows, she scrambled to get it, replacing it with the basket and mask. She chanced a look around the room and at calling Erik's name a second time – still no answer. It was very... homey. There was what she assumed to be a living room straight ahead, it did not look so much different from their home beneath the opera house, though it was a little wider and the fireplace was a lot grander and there was a considerable lack of instruments save for what appeared to be a violin case and an upright pianoforte. She wanted to move closer to the fireplace to get warm, and to examine the odd, pretty-looking trinkets on the mantle, they were glittering beautifully above the lit hearth: they looked like some sort of glass figurines. But her heart was beating wildly and she was worried about her husband. She called out his name a third time, but to no avail.

She bent to observe the wet spots he had left on the floor where he stood only moments ago, but they led nowhere and only served to remind her that she must be dripping gallons onto the lovely carpet. Behind her was a dining room – _that'll be different_ , she mused. They were opposite from what Christine had grown used to – at home, the living room was in the front, the dining room in the back. She imagined she'd be able to get accustomed to it... that is, if he _was_ planning on moving them up here. She almost laughed at the thought of Erik actually being alright with such a change. He was very peculiar about those things. Once she recalled how she had tried to reorganize only some of the furniture in the drawing room and he'd just about exploded.

Christine had finished cleaning the kitchen, the dining room, and her room (she would not even dare to think of going into his room or to mess with anything in the musical sphere of the living area, needless to say they had an agreement that he would take care of those two lest she accidentally move some music to some earth-shatteringly, horribly wrong spot in the space of their home, oh yes, God forbid she even _brushed_ against one sheet) and Erik had been on one of his errands. She rarely ever knew what those entailed – sometimes he'd tell her if she inquired, he never did if she didn't (though it seemed to greatly bother him if she chose not to ask about his day, whether or not he chose to give her an answer), but usually he would return home and act almost as if he had never left. What she did know was the "managing of the opera house," and the helping with the design of certain buildings – most he said were just ordinary homes, but others he said were masterpieces he occasionally collaborated on (somehow in anonymity).

Once after a considerable amount of insistence he agreed to show her his plans for a new shopping area they were having built in Naples – as soon as he began to explain to her what was what and why was this and how was that he had grown much more relaxed and even excited in an almost childlike manner over it: it made _her_ excited just to listen to him. From what she could comprehend from his fanatical architectural ramble was that it really _was_ a beautifully and masterfully designed building. He was working on it with two fellows named Emanuele and Ernesto, though apparently they weren't much help. He admitted to not terribly dislike Emanuele as an individual, simply that he thought "perhaps the young fellow ought to stop dilly-dallying in architecture and find a better suited job for himself that he would actually enjoy and excel in like delivering the daily newspaper." She had tried rather hard not to roll her eyes at him and even harder not to burst into raucous laughter.

But otherwise in regards to his errands, she didn't know much – though sometimes she worried when he did not tell her, wondering if the reason was because it wouldn't be something she would approve of... like hurting someone. It would astound her when she thought of the fact that this man, who could be so tender, timid, and attentive, could be capable of such cruelty or madness. The times she was reminded were when he would come back home extremely agitated and snap at her for the smallest things, it would often result in their quality time being cut short. She could understand having a rough day but if all he was willing to do was be sour about it she wasn't going to sit there and take his unnecessary criticisms, and not even in association to her singing but simply _in general_ ("Must you breathe so much?" "Yes?" "Well, do it a little quieter, will you? I am developing a migraine."). He would apologize profusely or he would pretend it didn't happen, it all depended on his mood, or whatever it was he was upset about. Now she started to wonder if... if perhaps he really _had_ been hurting someone. What if he had been going off to torture Raoul? What had he done to him? She shook her head, moving into the dining room of this new house and then through an open doorway to a very pleasant and modern kitchen, she gave another, "Erik?" But he continued to remain elusive – _the coward_.

Yet, left-home-alone Christine, bored and curious and suddenly feeling rather uncomfortable with the situation of the sofa, the dining table, and Erik's large chair in relation to the fireplace, had a brilliant idea! She was the lady of the house, wasn't she? And surely it would be alright if she made a _few_ changes, as long as she didn't touch any of his instruments (she almost keeled over laughing at the thought of how furious he would be if she moved his great piano across the room – she wondered if she would even have the strength). So Christine set to work turning and setting and when at last she was finished she was quite proud of herself and lounged upon the couch with a smile on her face before taking a well-deserved nap. Well, she did not accurately estimate Erik's ability to be mortified by surprises and when he came into his home, expecting familiarity and instead met with unforeseen modifications in his splendid, perfectly designed home, he almost fell over in horror. No, this would not do! This would not do at all! And there the culprit was: _sleeping_ , basking in their dastardly plans to ruin his day!

"What is the meaning of this!" Her eyes snapped open, glancing about the place and finally finding Erik with his arms crossed and a foot tapping on the floor.

"Oh... um, sorry, Erik, I was just sleeping."

"I am well aware of that. Now would you care to explain this... this _abomination_?" He gestured around the room and then began pacing and muttering outlandish, unintelligible things.

"Abomination?" She quirked an eyebrow, "I only moved some stuff around, I thought it'd be better this way. Besides, you're always saying that I'm the lady of the house."

"Well, the lady of the house ought to speak with the _lord_ of the house before she goes about – about destroying it!"

"I think destroying is taking it a bit far, Erik. If you didn't like it you could've woken me up _kindly_ and we could've discussed it civilly and – " But then he was on his knees before her, taking her hands into his gloved ones and moaning and crying over them in unbridled despair. She had been completely bewildered, "Erik, what's wrong? Did something happen today while you were gone? Are you alright?"

"Is... Erik... _alright_? He does not know, Christine! Have you taken a look at his _home_ lately? It's in near shambles!" She jumped a little at the fierceness in his voice and how greatly it contrasted to the very submissive position he continued to hold, the only thing changing was his tightening grip on her hands and how she desired to pull away.

"Erik, if I had known it would've bothered you so much I wouldn't have done it, I'm sorry."

"Sorry! She's _sorry_! But of course she's sorry, Erik's little wife would never mean to upset him. Oh, but why did you do it, Christine? Did you not like it the way it was? What is so wrong with it that you must _change_ it? Why can you not simply love it!" And then he was sobbing, "Please, Christine, you must... you must put it back together again. Put it back together again and do not change it anymore!" he whined.

"Whatever you say, Erik," she said honestly, concern clear in her tone. She managed to snatch one of her hands away from him in order to lay it carefully on his shoulder, "I'll put it back together. Are you sure this is the only thing that's bothering you?"

"Yes!" He barked, and suddenly he was standing again, composed and stately, "Wife, I am going to go into my room for a little while and when I come back I had _better_ find this room in its _original condition_ , understood?" But she couldn't even answer before he was already closing his door behind him. She had thought about crying, had almost done it... but where would they be if she did? It would only distress the both of them further and frankly, it was only a room, wasn't it? She would set an example to that temperamental, overgrown child. She would not let it bother her. Besides, something told her that there was more to his being upset than the nearly miniscule changes she had made. And when he had spoken about it, he did not seem to be actually speaking about it. He was upset about something more. _Why can you not simply love it?_ He asked her, _why can you not simply love me?_ He probably meant, no matter how ridiculous it was. She had already told him that she would try to love him, she had promised to be a better wife to him. What was she supposed to do? Whatever he had done on his errand must have gone wrong, perhaps he had had expectations about something and then it all went awry. If only he wasn't such a big bullying baby sometimes... _if only he hadn't woken me up so rudely!_

When he returned she could tell he was trying to make it up to her. During lessons he was very lenient on her mistakes and gave her endless praise whenever she did something he approved of, he made her whatever she wanted for dinner, and he amiably offered to read her something before she went off to bed... but he would not say anything about the room being changed and glared at her menacingly when she began to press the issue.

"Erik, you don't have to tell me what happened today, I understand. I only... I only worry about you. And you're right, I should've asked you if you were okay with my rearranging the rooms. If I think of doing something like that ever again, I will be sure to come to you. I really am sorry... do you forgive me?" He scoffed quietly and his features twisted into a very displeased expression that only made him look all the uglier (if it was possible). But then he did it! He shouldn't have, but he did. He only glanced. He thought he could glance! But he was wrong. He was a mawkish, romantic old fool. Yes, he did it, he looked straight into her big blue eyes, and his heart thumped very loudly in his chest as it sprang back to life. _She is doing her best, Erik! Come now, be gracious_. It was strange how much that particular voice in his head sounded like his Persian friend, even more so it was _annoying_... _ly_ right. And then he did it a _second_ time! He looked at them _again_! So bright and blue and earnest. Oh, would he ever learn! _Fine, you great big booby, you win!_ He sighed softly and touched her hand.

"Do not worry about it anymore, my dear. I was perhaps... a bit melodramatic in regards to the room. If you should like, I will make you a list of things you can and cannot change in the house. Do not ask why I am particular about these things, I simply am, just let it be. But I am willing – for my darling, little wife – to make compromises, because that is what one does in a marriage, hm – compromise?" She smiled so sweetly then, oh his very sweet, wonderful Christine, how she made his heart all aflutter at the sight of that wondrous smile: had she any idea? He treasured that smile, he had been without it for so very long now, he could hardly believe he was seeing it again and even more so that it was somehow because of _him_.

"Thank you, Erik, that would be lovely. I greatly appreciate your doing so." She took a chance then and leaned forward to press a featherlike kiss to his forehead. He gasped and his eyes began to well with tears and he took her hands again (but ever-so-much more gently than before) and laid his cheek upon them so lightly it barely touched her. He whispered adoration and love, and she looked upon him with pity anew. She longed to hold him, to force him to tell her every terrible thing he had ever endured in his life, and to allow her to somehow love it away if she could. But instead they departed for the night.

The next day she had almost thought he had left for another errand, but it turned out he had simply decided to stay in his room a little longer than usual. She wondered why he did that. Did he just become nervous after they'd had an emotional scene? Did he not know how to handle seeing her again after being like that? Did he feel guilty or embarrassed? Did he just need some time to recuperate? She could understand that, sometimes she felt that way. And she knew he wasn't around people very often... maybe it was just that great social interaction like that simply drained him. Sometimes when he stole away he would play music, beautiful and terrible and often heartbreaking music. Other times, she could hear him speaking to himself or every once and awhile he would begin tinkering with something, she could hear the clicks and whirrs and buzzes if she pressed her ear up to the door.

Erik could be a frightening man, but there was no doubt that he was a fascinating man. Everything about him was simply... unsimple. He seemed extraordinary in all ways, which was almost sad when she thought about the fact that all he claimed he wanted to be _was_ ordinary. She wasn't so sure though. Could he truly a live a happy life being dull and common? Could he live without his magnificent music and his brilliant ideas? She thought about the possibility that he did all of it begrudgingly; as if he had no choice but to be a virtuoso in everything! Could one choose not to understand as well as he seemed to understand everything, could they ignore thoughts of pure genius? Perhaps not. Maybe it _was_ a burden. She wouldn't know, she had always felt like she was a fairly plain girl, that there was nothing all that extraordinary about her. That isn't to say that she wasn't interesting or attractive in her own unique ways as another human being, but beyond that... she was _just_ Christine, until he came.

"Erik?" She had once asked, dropping her book into her lap and giving him a most (adorably) inquisitive look.

"Yes, my dear?"

"Why did you choose me?"

"Whatever do you mean?" Erik knew exactly what she meant. She stretched across the couch and gazed up at the ceiling, marveling at how only five cellars above there was an opera house, and normal, everyday people were there, living their normal, everyday lives.

"I mean... there were plenty of other girls, perhaps prettier or more intelligent or more musically talented than I... or even less intelligent and more musically talented than I. Why me? Was it because..." she swallowed, "because of my father? Because it was easy to fool me?" His heart seemed to constrict painfully and he moved to sit on the very edge of the sofa beside her, shaking his head vehemently.

"No! No, my love. Do not think such things of your Erik. I... to be frank, Christine, I cannot tell you when it was I first realized that I loved you. It did not start out as love, I had only ever _thought_ of _thinking_ of love before, and it was not a realistic thought... it never has been. But no, I heard you sing, my Christine. And your voice, it... it was as if the Heavens had _gifted_ it solely to me; it was my prayer, it was my happiness, it was my salvation. Instantaneously, I knew I must possess it. And then, Christine, you were... so kind to me. You did not know your Erik then, therefore you did not know what it meant to him... but you _were_ so kind, and so gentle and soft and beautiful and lonely, and you _needed_ me, you needed my guidance. No, I did not choose you because you were easy to fool, but because _I_ am _foolish_ , Christine, and allowed this unworthy, shattered heart to love you. Suddenly... suddenly, _I_ needed _you_. You _consumed_ me! My every thought, my every dream, my music! You, you, you, it was only ever you. It was – it _is_ overwhelming! Oh, your poor, little husband cannot _breathe_ without you, and he has never felt that way before. He did not... know what to do. Erik should not have lied to you as he did. But I did not know... I wanted to be normal, Christine, for once – if only once. And to love someone for the first time in my wretched life; to dare to love them... it was such a blessedly, painfully normal thing. I cannot expect you to ever forgive me for it, but only because I cannot honestly say I am sorry."

_My_ _love_ , she thought, it was such an intimate thing to call her. He often lavished various pet names on her, sometimes it seemed too much but then sometimes... when he said them so sweetly and sincere and in that beautiful voice, it would take her breath away. His voice was such an enchanting, magical thing, even when he did not mean it to be, and she knew that he knew how to manipulate it in such a way that he could make it even more captivating than what it already was – he had demonstrated as much when they had had that tickle-fight (the memory making her smile a little).

He had a deep, profound voice, sonorous and soothing, and it was quite musical in its own sense, rising and falling though you would not be able to tell unless you paid attention closely. It was like being carried on a cloud, floating and calming. He had such control of his voice with the practice he had in ventriloquism and singing, it seemed as if he could say _anything_ in _any_ language the very best way there was to say it. She often delighted in listening to him sing or speak in other languages. She even had favourites: his Italian was very well suited to his rich tones, and she was quite fond of the way he could roll his r's, neither too flimsy or too harsh, but captivating like that of the pull of a great sea's waves – Romanian and any Slavic or Scandinavian languages were similarly adored. The first time she had asked him to speak another language for her he had spoken Swedish and nearly made her cry with the awe and nostalgia that took over her; he had felt so bad and told her he would never speak it again but she assured him that it was one of the most beautiful things she had ever heard and that she dearly hoped to hear it once more. And so every once and awhile they would greet one another in Swedish, or have a conversation or two – it would fairly amuse the both of them. Thus, when she heard such lovely things as 'my love' or 'my darling' or 'my angel' or even his commonplace 'my dear,' sometimes she would feel her whole being just warm with delight and even joy.

Christine thought on his words, turning them over carefully in her head, watching his expression – those golden eyes looking at her hopefully, pleadingly, apprehensively. He worried for her reaction. And in truth, she was not sure what to feel... or even why she had asked such a question. She still didn't really understand, and yet... a part of her did. She _had_ (in certain ways) been convenient. But it seemed that he had not really considered such an outcome and that it took him genuinely by surprise when he at last realized he was in love, whatever being in love was... she was still trying to figure that one out herself. What followed, followed. But something bothered her in his statement.

"What are you not sorry for?" She finally asked and was surprised when he answered immediately.

"Loving you."

"And... and what about...?" She need not say more. Afraid of looking at him, she kept her eyes on her fingers as they picked and messed with the fabric on the back cushion of the couch. He was silent, almost frighteningly so. They sat there like that for a long while, until she finally gathered the courage to turn her head to him. And that is when he sighed, taking her hand away from the cushion and petting it with a most forlorn expression on his hideous face.

"If your poor, wretched Erik is to feel remorse for anything, it is that he was weak and did not let you go the very moment you agreed to stay with him. I have... I have offered before, and I will offer again, though it pains me beyond your imagination – if you asked; if you but _whispered_ the word, I would set you free. Oh, certainly I would perish the very moment you walked out of that door never to return, but _you_ , Christine, are more dear to me than whatever this half-life could offer; even music! This wasted heart, so poorly-handled and long-denied of any _hope_ of love," he placed her hand over his chest, "it is _yours_ – yours to do with what you will. Break it, mend it, whatever you deem fit, I am no longer its proprietor..." She started to tear up at the sincerity in his words and eyes. What a truly precious, fragile thing he had given her, oh she trembled at the thought of breaking it anymore than it was already broken.

"I... I made a promise, Erik, I won't break it," _the promise nor the heart_ , she thought determinedly, "Like I said before, I'm here to stay. I am here of my own free will." He breathed at last, allowing some feeling of relief to wash over him, "And thank you for speaking so honestly, it means everything to me." And then she brought him in for a hug, needing to be close, and feeling happy when she felt his arms around her shoulders and his cheek atop her head.

"Thank _you_ , my wonderful wife; thank you."


	16. Boom!

Christine went around the kitchen, taking a moment to peer into various cabinets to find that they were fully stocked with utensils for cooking and food for what could be the next two weeks. _Well, that explains the picnic basket_. From there it was a dead end, save for another door that led to the outside, and so she tiptoed back into the front room.

"Erik, come on, you can't hide forever..." She sighed as she moved into the living room. But the longer he was gone the more worried she became, what if he was suffering? He was in a horrible condition when they'd gotten here – he could hardly stand up! What if he had crawled off somewhere to die like some sort of sick animal? She cringed at the thought. To her left was a spiral staircase, and further ahead was another room she assumed was one of the bathrooms. _Up the stairs it is_ , but when she turned, she turned into _his_ notably dry chest. Christine jumped, nearly dropping the lamp. _Best not to set the place on fire the first time you visit_ , "Lord in Heaven! – Erik, you startled me! Don't do that. Where were you?" He watched her curiously, tilting his head to the side and then unfurling his hands majestically before her while he shrugged.

"Upstairs, getting dressed; where were you?"

"Looking for you." She was not sure how she felt about the cultivated, emotionless tone in his voice, or the fact that it was still fairly dark in the house save for the fire behind them, a few wall sconces, and the lamp in her hand. It cast shadows on him, made him darker and more malevolent to behold – she wondered if he knew.

"Ah, well, you have found me now! And what were you planning on doing with me after you did?"

"Asking you if you're alright. You worried me, you struggled a lot to get here."

"I assure you, I am perfectly fine. You, on the other hand, are probably quite close to catching your death." A chill ran down her spine at his use of the last word, "Come, I will show you upstairs and to your room, and there you can dry and dress and whatnot. Here, give me that lamp, my dear." He moved to the little table in the front room from before and grabbed the basket (leaving the mask), inclining his head to the stairs before he started up them. It felt surreal, after what they had just discussed, after what had just happened. How (and why) was he acting so calm and composed? It frightened her more than anything. She tentatively went upstairs, the steps creaking very little. She was glad to note that it was a bit brighter up here. To her right was a large, open area she assumed was over the drawing room, yet it was virtually empty.

"The music room," he clarified for her, "I still have not found the time to move much into it, of course. But I am sure it will look quite splendid when I do, no?"

She nodded, shivering a bit as she began to realize how wet she was in relation to how cold the house was.

"Oh, my poor, little wife!" Erik exclaimed, moving quickly to one of the doors on the left. He set down the basket and produced a set of keys (from what seemed thin air) and unlocked the door before him, "How terrible of Erik, to have left you freezing while he went upstairs to get all warm. Here you are, my darling, this is your room. Take the basket, will you?" She did as she was told and carefully crept into the room at his gesture to enter. She was a little surprised when he followed her and then further surprised when she found herself relieved that he was only setting the oil lamp on a set of drawers. She was suddenly struck with one of the strangest feelings in the world, she longed to seek Erik out for comfort out of fear of Erik. She had told him she was afraid of him before and had been granted his arms, but never _while_ she feared him. How would that work? 'Erik, I'm absolutely terrified of you right now, please hold me!' 'Oh, okay, I do not feel offended or dismayed by that whatsoever and will be completely levelheaded as I embrace you with the gentleness of a little lamb.' A soft laugh escaped her and he gave her a rather bemused look.

"Sorry... was just... thinking. Thank you, Erik."

He put his hands behind his back, "The room to your left is the bath, the one to your right is the closet, and in the basket you should find three separate sets of clothing for yourself. Now, I shall retire to _my_ room. I will very likely be asleep within the next ten minutes – I am dreadfully tired, you know – however, should you have need of me, I am the first door on the left: all you have to do is knock." And then a teensy bit of true emotion filtered into his voice as he sighed, "However, I _would_ ask that you refrain from any serious discussion until daylight. We _will_ speak in the morning, my wife, about... whatever it is you should wish to speak of. But until then, your _husband_ would humbly request that you allow the both of us to get some rest. Goodnight."

"Goodnight..."

He bowed and started towards the door, suddenly pausing as if there was an invisible barrier at the frame, "If you can believe nothing else, Christine, at least believe that I _do_ love you." And then the barrier broke and he left her with those solemn, heavy words. She wanted him to hold her more than ever now, even if he was the cause of her pain. She had no one else to go to. She wanted to run to him and to run from him, but she was denied both.

Christine looked around her room – it was the brightest spot in the house so far, what with the sconces located on every wall and the added light of the oil lamp. There was never a time beneath the opera house when all the lights were off – frankly, Christine did not care all that much for the dark (meaning it frightened her to death) even if Erik seemed to flourish in it. He could control the lights in the other apartments almost magically there as well – some of them were oil, others gas, and a few were electric (to her fascination). He had a series of switches and levers and contraptions that allowed him to turn them off and on at will. He had offered to show her how it worked, but she could only grasp the very basic things. This button is 'off' and this button is 'on' – she could understand that, but she didn't like the idea of trying to figure out some mad pattern that if done wrong could somehow result in one of the lights exploding, so she decided to opt out on those. She had never cared all that much for puzzles, though she liked the occasional clever riddle or rhyme... no, the first puzzle she had ever been very fond of was Erik, and he was enough puzzle to befuddle her for a lifetime.

The room was not fully furnished, which made sense if he was going to be making a whole move from the opera house to here. She found herself missing the beautiful furniture of the Louis-Philippe room... even if it was his mother's furniture. She did not like that woman, even though she was not alive. Christine often wondered how much more different – how much more _happy_ Erik would be if only his mother had been a little more gracious to him. But he must have harboured some sentiment towards her to have kept the furniture that he did, or at least sentiment for the _idea_ of his mother. Erik was very much an idealist, even when he would not admit it (and there were a few times when he did). He seemed to have a thousand dreams, and so many of them failed to come true. The thought stung Christine even while she acknowledged that it was one of the things that endeared him to her (if not also frightened her).

But this new room was not without the essentials, there was a lovely dark wooden bed with simple white sheets, there was a modest vanity, an armoire, the set of drawers that Erik had put the oil lamp on, a chair that she assumed must have actually been another part of the collection of his mother's furniture due to its familiar style, and a couple of book cases in the far left corner. They had a few books in them, in fact, she recognized that some of these were a few of the books that she had been so sure Erik had hidden from her! The closet was a similar story: it was quite bare save for a few pairs of shoes, some pretty parasols, and... _five_ of her favourite hats. _I'd wondered where those'd gone!_ Erik had told her he knew nothing when she had asked him if he had taken them from her. _The lying scoundrel!_ But then her heart ached a little at the realization at how much of a lying scoundrel he really was. To have kept Raoul locked up like that. A memory flickered in her mind... of M. Khan, opening his mouth, ready to tell her something with a look of utter sadness in his eye. Why hadn't he told her? He _must_ have known! But would it have been better that way? Would it have done anything more than put him in danger and make everyone angry and sad? No, likely not.

The bathroom was well-prepared with soaps, oils, towels, towelettes, and other necessities. She winced a little when she finally got a good look at herself in the mirror, with her damp hair still half-up and her clothes baggy and sopping... and that zit still on her face. She grabbed the basket and quickly searched for nightclothes before making sure her door was locked and then stripping off the wet garments. While waiting for her bathtub to fill she released her curls from its dastardly pinned-confines and found a hairbrush to comb out all of the dreadful tangles. She noted that her hair was becoming quite long and perhaps she ought to trim it a little. She spent a good half an hour in the tub, just soaking in the warmth and enjoying the light. When she finally got out she dressed, brushed her hair once more, and then found that extra container of that curious cream and dabbed a bit of it on her cheek. It didn't sting or tingle or anything, it simply sat there. She wondered how it would work. As far as she knew the only cures and treatments they had for such things was a change in diet or bathing or exercise, she had never seen or heard of a cream before. She made a mental note to ask Erik at some point.

She gazed out the curtained window; it was strange to realize how long it had been since she had looked out a window before going off to bed. It was still very dark outside, she estimated it could be no more than midnight... it was also still raining, and rather strongly. It beat harshly against the glass, and she could hardly see a thing save for trees waving in the distance... they seemed evil. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly feeling cold again and eager for the morning. She did not dislike storms, in fact, she had fond memories of spending time with her father while they watched great thunder clouds roll in and roll out during the day, and of dancing in the rain and singing silly songs. But there was something about the night that made them menacing things. The thunder was no longer a playful rumble, it was a bellowing roar. The lightning was no longer a faint flash, it was a deadly scar across darkness' face. Yes, she could do without storms at night. Thankfully, however, this did not seem to be a thunderstorm. Or, at least, that's what Christine had thought before she woke up to an explosive and monstrous boom!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *overly dramatic and ominous music plays in background*


	17. The King and I

The poor woman had shot straight up out of bed to pace across the floor, jumping when she heard another shocking thunderclap. She began chewing on her thumbnail, Erik hated it when she did that (Mamma Valerius had never been very fond of it either), and had actually helped her to break the habit after many reprimands as the Angel of Music and further glares when he had become Erik... but sometimes, when she was very scared or very nervous she would still do it.

Suddenly, she was thinking of her Mamma Valerius, wondering what she was doing, if she was worried for her. Since their marriage she had seen her surrogate mother a measly three times (by her own choice). The reunion had been filled with many embraces and cries and much talk; Mamma Valerius was informed of only a little of Christine's full circumstances (by behest of Erik). She informed her that she had eloped – and not with the young Viscount, or as he was now known, the _Count_ de Chagny – but, indeed, with the man who had posed as her Angel of Music and whom Raoul had confronted her about those many months ago, Erik. Mme. Valerius was very supportive (as she always was) and only felt slighted at the thought that her dear Christine had gotten married and had not even told her and then had left her for so long – Christine spun a tale that she had been on her honeymoon but that she had sent word and acted distraught over the fact that her letters had not made it to her good and caring mummy (talk of the honeymoon had led to some equally delicate, awkward, and yet bonding conversation which Christine decided not to recount to Erik when he inevitably asked how her meeting went).

That first visit had been a surprise and not more than two months ago. Erik had been anxious then like he had been on their way to the forest here. Mamma Valerius had seemed quite healthy when Christine had visited her, but Erik explained to her that she was in actuality quite sick and may not live through the next year or two. She had almost lost the will to cry. Almost. And then she had spilled tears for hours. He promised her that she could visit her again sometime soon.

But the next time Erik had offered, Christine said she was okay without, though she began to ask him to deliver an occasional letter to her old guardian. She was conflicted... afraid to see her adoptive mother again knowing that she would eventually have to leave her once more for the underground with the knowledge she was waiting at Death's Door. It was terribly painful. But then one night after she had a nightmare of her Mamma Valerius being strangled by Erik's Punjab Lasso, Erik comforted her and gave her the strength to cease being so afraid to see her mother again. The implications had terrified her of course, and they had made no sense. Erik had no reason to want to harm her Mamma – what's more was that he had actually confessed to think well of the woman, even if he hadn't fully met her. He thought her to be warm, kind, simple, and jovial (if not a bit nosy, but weren't they all?); a quintessential grandmother figure. Christine opted out mentioning to him that it had been by his hands that Mamma Valerius had died (she wasn't sure if she would've even been able to), too afraid she may upset him (and herself) in some way. He had come to her rescue as soon as he had heard her scream.

"Christine!" He had called out, bursting through her door. More light flooded the room and she shook her head while she cried and Erik came to her bedside, "Come now, my angel, speak to your Erik. Tell him what is the matter... was it a nightmare?" He bent a little to put a gentle hand on her shoulder; that was enough to make her cling to him and sob all over his vest... she wondered if he had simply not gone to bed yet or if he had gotten dressed just for her, "Would you care to talk about it?" She mumbled a no and he patted her back (if albeit a bit awkwardly) when she hiccoughed, "Would you like to go back to sleep?" She shook her head violently then, "Alright, would you like to come and sit with me in the living room?" She was quiet for a little bit and then eventually she nodded and he further questioned, "Would you care for something sweet as well, beloved?" Christine could not deny that she had a bit of a sweet tooth, what could she say? She enjoyed her pastries and ices and candies. He had set her down on the sofa and offered her a blanket to cuddle up in after he brought her a plate of madeleines.

"Thank you," she said softly, nibbling on one of the small cakes.

"Would you like some tea?" And then he left to retrieve her a large cup filled with the heavily-honeyed and warm beverage, asking with his eyes for permission to sit beside her. She gladly invited him, happy to be able to rest her head on his shoulder and then later on his chest when he put his arm on the back of the sofa at her insistence (meaning she had all but lifted his arm and set it in place). They were silent for awhile, Erik did not mind of course, feeling very content with the fact that he could help his Christine and that she was laying her sweet head upon him and seeking him for comfort. It was in moments like these where he felt he was not such a bad man after all.

"It was horrible," she finally murmured and he looked down at her, waiting for her to continue but also bracing himself for the possibility that that may be all she could bear to say, "I was visiting Mamma... and... and talking to her, and then in the next moment... in the next moment... oh, Erik!" She cried, rubbing her face against the blanket she still had tightly wrapped about her like a cocoon. He shushed and dared to bring a hand to her shoulder, "She was dead, Erik! Dead!"

"I know, my darling. Do not cry anymore, do not cry. It was only a nightmare. And I am here now, there is nothing to fear."

Her cries turned to sniffles, and then she requested in the most adorable whimper, "Kerchief, please."

She wiped at her eyes and face, rubbing with her hand and his handkerchief intermittently, she gave it back all wet with her tear stains, "Sorry." He wanted to give her a vocal reassurance, but he was a bit tongue-tied at the moment, trying to get over her blue eyes and the handkerchief she had just christened with her tears and deposited in his lap. He had to fight the sudden urge not to frame it and put it up on his wall.

"What am I supposed to do, Erik?" She asked him while his strength returned, "I am so afraid of her dying! So afraid of another person I love leaving me forever!"

"I know, Christine, I know," he sighed, stroking her arm gently, hoping it would be taken as the comfort he meant it to be, "Listen to me now, hm? Your Mamma Valerius is a very good Catholic woman, is she not?" At her nod he continued, "She has accepted the Lord Jesus as her Saviour, has she not?" She whispered a yes, "And in your teachings, my dear, were you never told of the afterlife? Of the Paradise that awaits those who are good and firm in their beliefs of the Great Almighty? And are you both, my love, firm believers of these teachings?"

"We are."

"Then she is not leaving you forever, but only for a time – even a very short time compared to Eternity. No one has anything to fear from Death, Christine, especially not if they have the Sacrificial Blood of the Lamb on their doorpost. Listen now, this is what you must do: you must stop avoiding the inevitable. She is going to die, Christine, and I know that it hurts, but that is simply the way things are – we all die eventually, it is our Destiny. But I know it is difficult for you, beloved, because she _is_ going to leave you and it is never easy to part from loved ones: but rather than foregoing her company, you should be gratefully taking whatever time left on this earth you have been allotted to spend with her. You must stop living in fear of her; she is always glad to receive your letters and answer them, but I have seen in those old eyes a true sadness. She misses you dearly, Christine. You must be brave, you must meet with her and speak with her, and then you must return to your husband, who will be here for you should you have need of solace."

"You are right, Erik. I've been so silly, haven't I?"

"No, not silly, my dear. It is perfectly natural to have a fear the unknown." _And if anyone is an expert on that, it is I._

"I should like to visit her soon."

"And you shall – not tomorrow, but perhaps next Sunday, hm? After Mass? Would that be alright?"

"Yes, yes that sounds just fine, Erik, thank you." It was not unusual for Christine to go to Mass, for the last three months she had taken to attending one (as well as visiting her father's grave) at least every third Sunday and Erik had never shown any displeasure or irritation for it – in fact, he would encourage and (following like a shadow) occasionally accompany her. They often spoke of various intellectual topics, and theology was not a taboo one. Erik had been very forthright about his peculiar beliefs. He said that if he were to define his denomination it would be Catholic – he was fond of religion, of its traditions and values, and Catholicism was a very regulatory religious establishment (and his mother had been Catholic). But he had his own atypical and ambivalent relationship with God. He did not outright reject what he read in the scriptures (and he had read all of them _thoroughly_ ), but explained that he could not help but feel bitter towards God given (ahem) certain circumstances, yet that did not mean he was an apostate. He conceded that he was far more bitter towards the actions of Creation rather than that of the Creator Himself. He did not comprehend how a Divine Being could love the race of mankind in the way that God claimed to. Man was filled with such fickle, cruel creatures – hardly any of their actions warranted love or forgiveness or salvation.

But he assured her he was not an atheist even while he looked like a devil – he simply couldn't be, not when he had physical proof of the Divine before him in the supernatural empyreanism of music (and the perfection that was her, he added, and she had turned a very bright shade of red for it). Yet he did not deny his fascination with scientific discoveries and ideas, even those like that of Charles Darwin's controversial evolutionary theory; he told her he did not think that such things negated the Almighty's existence – it was simply further understanding. And understanding was something not to be repudiated, but cautiously and reverently undertaken – he stressed the word cautiously, and she remembered that terrible day when she had ripped his mask off without a thought to consequences.

He seemed an authority on many subjects and enjoyed various philosophers and intellectuals and individuals of intelligence, and his interests were quite diverse. He confessed, to her surprise (and yet it made so much sense when she later reexamined the choice), that his favourite book was (arguably, of course) Mary Shelley's _Frankenstein._ He also especially appreciated John Milton's _Paradise Lost_ , Bram Stoker's _Dracula_ , Frances Truqué's _The Vampire's Daughter_ , Shakespeare's _Othello_ , _Much Ado About Nothing_ , _Richard III_ , and the tetralogy featuring the Plantagenet royalty, Victor Hugo's _The Man Who Laughs_ , the epic poems _Beowulf_ , _the Iliad_ , _the Odyssey_ and so on; as well as numerous works from Edgar Allan Poe, Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, John Keats, Erik Gustaf Geijer, Charles Baudelaire, Théophile Gautier, Percy Shelley, and many more. She wondered if he wrote anything himself, and he admitted that he had written as many plays and sonnets and tales as he had operas and masses and concertos but that many of them were not for anyone else's eyes save for his own. And so she begged him to let her read some of the few that weren't – he left abruptly and then returned with a notebook in hand. It was black and leather-bound with nothing inscribed on the top or bottom, and she took it carefully when he offered it to her and told her that within its pages she would find a selection of some of his own poetry (a heavy emphasis on 'some').

That night she opened it eagerly (and apprehensively) and found there were 28 poems in total (and she still noted several pages in the book that had probably been purposefully torn out). She had thought about perusing only one each night, but in that evening alone one became two and two became four and four became eight and before she knew it she had read them all. Each were painfully beautiful: they spoke of music, of heaven, of hell, three were fantastical narratives that felt almost as if they had been written specifically for her (and they were); but most of all, the poems were _of_ her. They were of her beauty and her voice and her eyes and her kindness – they spoke of her cruelty! And then they pardoned her for it, lavishing her again with praise. It was like his music; it _was_ music. And she cried when he willed tears and she laughed when he demanded cheer and she hurt when he called forth pain. The darkest ones must have been carefully chosen and allowed (and even they were quite fearsome, skirting on madness and dementia and distressful desperation – they made her heart race and she wasn't sure how to feel about them, awe or terror or pity), and though they frightened her she was glad he had not removed them as he had done with many others.

A most interesting poem to her (for reasons that will be made obvious) was the untitled, long narrative towards the end of the notebook (and therefore more recently written). It was about a poor carpenter and his daughter. For fear that his daughter would die in their poverty, the poor carpenter asked Providence to help them and Providence answered, giving him the will to carve a particularly special fiddle. It was magic and granted whosoever played it whatever they wished, and the carpenter, luckily, was very talented and happened to possess the ability to play any instrument given to him. So he played and played, and all of his wishes came true; his daughter wanted for nothing, she was a princess, and she was graced with the gift of song almost as powerful as that of the fiddle. But then her father grew very sick and could no longer play the fiddle, and no matter how much she sang it was not enough without the addition of the magical instrument she lacked the skill to play. The carpenter died and his daughter mourned, continuing to sing her sorrowful song in futile hope that she could make him stir from his grave. Then one day, a young traveler heard her clear, beautiful voice and knew he had to marry her, but when he asked she sang (for she would not dare speak) that she could not marry him unless her father lived and gave his blessing.

The traveler, distraught, asked her how he may bring her father back to life, and she told him that if someone played the fiddle her father made and wished to bring him back to life while she sang, it would surely work. Unfortunately, the fiddle was enchanted and would only allow a true master to play, and though the traveler was a many good things, he was not a musician. So, with a broken heart, he left and spread the tale of the fair princess with the divine voice and the magic fiddle. Many years came and passed and many people visited her and left her whether to try to play the fiddle or listen to her perfect voice: until a king from a faraway and musical empire heard of her plight. He merely wanted to hear her renowned voice and best the fiddle – matrimony with the young maiden was not something he considered, he was infamous for his ugliness – Christine could not help but react to the blatant analogy, she furrowed her brow and laid on her bed, growing excited and anxious – and so he had assumed he would always remain alone. But when he came to play the fiddle (which he knew he would play with ease), he listened to her beautiful song, and despite himself, fell in love.

The ending was unexpected, Christine had assumed he would just play the fiddle and marry the princess, it would be easy enough. But the king wouldn't! – because he was afraid his own wishes would overcome hers. He was afraid that if he played the fiddle it would not bring her father to life but only make her love him in spite of his ugliness. And so instead he resorted to _teaching_ her how to play and giving her the freedom to grant her own wishes. _He let her go_. Every poem was written in Erik's strange and yet not unappealing scrawl; most were quite neat (even rather aesthetic in terms of handwriting) and there were rarely any changes or edits made. But this was one of the odd places where there were lines and then they were madly scribbled over and then rewritten and then scribbled again. She did not know how the story originally ended. Or how it ended the second, third, or fourth time. But at last, he settled for a most truly sad ending – in fact, it broke her heart. It had taken years to teach the princess how to expertly play the fiddle and when she finally could she was, in every respect, a master. Unfortunately, the king had already been well into his middle years when he came to the princess, and by the time he had successfully taught her to play he had become even older, and tireder, and sicker. When at last she played and wished her father to life, her father rose! And she ran to the king and gave him a kiss atop his terrible forehead as thanks. With that last act of love, the king died, and the princess and her father-carpenter were together forevermore.

It had made her angry at first, and then simply sad even while she understood and was glad that the carpenter had lived – _but how could he have killed the king?_ she thought, feeling oddly attached and knowing exactly why. And then an idea struck in her head; a wonderful, bittersweet, nerve-wracking idea. She got another sheet of paper, not willing to write into the notebook with ink and pen until she knew exactly how she wanted to phrase everything. There was no doubt in her mind that she was a very poor poet compared to him, but she would still try. Christine couldn't just leave it like that! Not when she had the power to change it. She wrote that even while he was ugly the princess had fallen in love with the king during all of their time spent together and could not bear it when he passed away. And so she asked her father to play the fiddle once more as his blessing while she sang, and she knelt before the king and kissed him again. When he arose, he was stronger than he had ever been before, and filled with an indescribable peace. The princess proclaimed her love and they married, and lived happily ever after.

It had taken her hours to write it just the way she wanted it, in fact, she was quite certain it was morning by the time she finished. What was most upsetting was how nervous she was to physically put it in that open space beneath his poem – what if he was angry with her for it? What if he didn't like the new ending? But hadn't he given her the power? The king had given the princess the freedom to grant her own wishes... well, what if _he_ was her wish? Couldn't it be that way? She finally put her pen to the paper, feeling almost as if she was unworthy to write in the same spot as he. Carefully, with her dark ink contrasted against the striking red of his, she wrote her own ending. And then she grabbed a pretty blue ribbon and stuck it into the book. With growing anxiety, she tiptoed out into the dark, glancing at the clock to note that it was four in the morning. She kept her eye out, making sure he wasn't outside of his room, and then she placed the book at the foot of his door and ran as fast as her legs could carry her before she could change her mind.

Christine had woken up in the afternoon (much to her chagrin, she did not enjoy sleeping in so late, it often made her feel warm in a very unpleasant and groggy sort of way) and was nonplussed when she found the notebook outside of _her_ door and Erik nowhere to be seen. Her blue ribbon had been replaced with a pretty yellow flower, to see it lying on the floor with the book reminded her of when he had first taken her – there had been so many flowers, she'd practically drowned in them... this was simple though, very simple and small, it was refreshing. She picked up the book, and opened to the page the flower indicated to. It was further back, passed the poem and her ending, it opened to a letter which she read with haste. He called her his beloved wife and thanked her endlessly for her lovely addition, that it had warmed his heart and – (dare he say it) – made him smile. He thought it fitting that she should write the resurrection to the king's sorrowful sacrifice; the happy ending. Delight coursed through her veins, _he liked it! Oh, he actually liked it!_ He told her to keep this book as a token of her sentimental old husband's gratitude, but that he had one humble request: that she write out his poem with her addition fully in her beautiful handwriting for him to treasure and keep.

She set to work immediately, grinning all the way through – even when her hand began to cramp. What was more was that she did not see him all afternoon – he was on some errand or other, and she was slightly glad of it since she didn't want him to be there until she was finished. But then when she _did_ at last finish (blushing brightly, she sweetly signed the bottom of the last page: _from your princess, Christine_ ), she grew impatient, waiting and waiting for him to show up. When he finally did, she gave him a great, big hug – it had nearly knocked him over – and helped him out of his cloak and put his hat away for him. Erik had never known such bliss! With his little wife fussing over him and then sitting him down and gifting him with their poem and asking if he would read it to her that night. It only just compared to when she fell asleep on him after that dreadful nightmare. He had been quite tempted to let her stay that way, curled up against his frame like a kitten. But decided it would probably be best for her to be back in her own bed, and so he carried her off and tucked her in and shut off her lights and whispered a soft 'I love you.'

It had been so easy to come to him with those fears, even while the fear of him lay somewhat behind them. But now here she was again, struck to the very core with terror and unsure if she could go to him. She wasn't even certain that if she screamed he would come. He had said if you have any need of me... but they had had such a great argument, and perhaps he hadn't really meant that, maybe he was just being overly polite or perhaps he had even been mocking her. Had he known she would end up quaking as she walked back and forth through this unfamiliar room in this unfamiliar house while it poured outside and thundered loudly? But then she thought back... thought back on those last words, so lost and sad. _If you can believe nothing else, Christine, at least believe that I_ do _love you._ And then there was another loud boom and she went scurrying as fast as she could from her room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff reigns supreme, my friends. Also, on a slightly unrelated but totally related note: you know how when you like someone you do whatever you can to feel nearer to them – you start reading whatever they like and listening to all of their favourite musicians and oh yeah, you totally keep up with that one show that you've never heard of before but is suddenly your favourite – I feel like Erik would be a lot like that. Where he'd go to great lengths to enjoy whatever Christine enjoys and be all, "Why yes, this is my favourite thing, what a coincidence it is your favourite thing as well! Let us bond over how we both coincidentally like this thing. Coincidentally~"
> 
> The Vampire's Daughter is a reference to the foregone chapter of Leroux's The Phantom of the Opera, "The Magic Envelope." Frances Truqué, as you can imagine, is not real (in fact, his name means "fake/faked").
> 
> If you are wondering: yes, I am of the Christian faith, and though it probably comes through in my works, I would like you to know that I have thought very carefully on Erik's religious positions. If he was an atheist, I would write him as such – but I am yet to find any evidence within the novel for it. I think his relationship with God is a strained one, but he has one nonetheless. He was probably raised (for the short amount of time he was being raised) Catholic, but has had much exposure to a lot of different religions (I would not be surprised if he has read several holy texts from multiple faiths and has adopted a few personal beliefs here and there). I think he is more fond of religion (of law) than he is of God – God is an enigma to him, more so is the idea of redemption and self-sacrificial love, I believe it has only been since Christine that he has begun to fully understand these ideals (and even better understand God). I base a lot of my headcanons and understandings of Erik from my own interpretations of POTO and from that of the very knowledgeable Phantom expertise of tumblr users fdelopera and muirin007 (and a few other marvelous individuals).


	18. Fear

_First door on the left_ , she thought, spying it immediately and almost sprinting over to rip it open, until she remembered that she should likely knock. She stood there for a long time with her hand raised in a fist, too nervous to actually make the sound she desperately wanted to. What if he didn't come? Could she bear the rejection? But then the thunder roared again and she rapped quickly at the door, panic rising in her at the thought of being alone for one more moment. The seconds seemed to drag by and paranoia was crawling up her spine in anticipation for the next clap of thunder. And then at last, he opened his door. He looked as if he might murder someone or collapse into a heap on the floor – and he was greatly considering doing either of those. He was clad in a dress robe and trousers, and his feet were completely bare, though she could not seem them. He blinked a few times and without taking the time to notice how jittery she was or the fact that she was trying to say something he grabbed her wrist, beginning to drag her away somewhere she did not know.

"In the morning!" He started in a low and severe tone, "Your husband asked civilly, but it would seem his word means nothing to his wife, yes, actions – " but then she heard the dreadful sound she had been fearfully waiting for, and though her head was reeling with the words that had begun to spill from Erik's mouth, she flung herself into his arms. He released her wrist as the both of his hands went up in bewilderment, and then he stood dumbfounded, staring at her quaking form.

"I'm sorry!" She cried, "I'm so sorry! We can talk in the morning, whatever you'd like, just don't leave me, please. I – I know you're upset and tired, but I'm just so scared, I can't bear it, I just can't! Please! It's like a monster!"

 _She is afraid of the thunder_ , he clarified for himself, and as if to prove the point there was another resounding boom and she clutched tighter to him. He released a soft breath, he had been so sure she had come to confront him about her boy. When he heard the knock on the door he did not know what he would do! He had requested so calmly, so politely for her _not_ to bother him about it until the morning. She was lucky he was even allowing that! But he was a good man, yes, he was a good man: not some uncivilized beast. He would be gracious, he would allow her to interrogate him, to tear him apart. But she would take his graciousness and throw it back in his face because she couldn't wait another four or five hours? He would have to teach her to have a little more regard for her husband! But no, he had been wrong. His angel came because she was afraid of the storm, and _needed him_. He recoiled at the earlier thoughts he had had before... what a truly wretched thing he was. Even now, as his hands came to her shoulders, he marveled at the fact that only moments ago he would've used the same hands to hurt her... her wrist, it probably ached now. How could he ever? He breathed in and out slowly, willing himself to listen to her pleading words.

"Please, I can't – I can't sleep, I tried, I really did... and I was so afraid... that you wouldn't answer, and I know it's been a long day, but I just... I just can't. Don't leave me. I have never liked them at night, and now I'm even more unused... oh, it's horrid! Please, stay with me! Keep me safe!" Another deafening clash came in quick succession with the last and she jumped, trembling like a babe. She looked up at him with beseeching eyes, and his resolve broke. He nodded, encircling his arms around her carefully.

"My poor, dear Christine." His voice was a tired caress; she did not know what to think of it, especially not as she came to realize that only moments ago he had been dragging her away... where had he been taking her? What had he been planning to do? "It is probably moving straight overhead, that is why it is so loud," he explained, "I suspect it will not end until the next four or five hours, perhaps it will even stretch into the early afternoon. I am shocked that I had not foreseen it, I thought it would be a very pleasant and bright day." _In more ways than one_ , "No matter. Come, my frightened, little dove, we'll go downstairs and Erik shall find you something to snack on to soothe your frazzled nerves." Christine eagerly took to that idea and began to follow him when she suddenly realized that she was still only in her nightgown.

"Oh, oh, Erik!" She gave his hand a squeeze to let him know she had stopped moving, "I'm so cold, I think I will grab my dressing gown and then meet you downstairs." He was not sure what to make of that (though he was not in the mood to argue, and not so sure what would happen if they did), his eyes traveled down her frame – the poor thing was probably freezing. He nodded, letting go of her warm fingers and making sure to turn on as many lights as he could for her while she was gone. _Can't have our Christine being afraid in this dark, now can we?_

She ran as quickly as was possible into her room, getting her dressing gown (as well as pulling on a pair of slippers for her chilled toes) and yelping when she heard another bang. She couldn't get to the bottom of the stairs fast enough, her heart pounding in her ears as she darted into the kitchen. Erik already had a plate of dried scones from the pantry placed on the kitchen table awaiting for her when she rushed in, clinging to his arm at another earsplitting blare of thunder. He could not hold back a faint chuckle as he petted her hair affectionately, "It's alright, my dear, come along. Why don't you sit there? Scone? There we are, that should help." He started to walk away but was halted by a hand on his arm, worry of abandonment evident in his terrified wife's eyes, "Oh, Christine," he said, "I am only going to get something to drink – would you care for anything, darling? Water? Tea?"

"Just some water, please; thank you."

She watched him as he moved about the kitchen and obtained two cups from the cabinet on the far left. It was the strangest she had ever seen Erik, there in his dressing gown and sleepy eyes. She caught sight of his feet, they were long and bony things, but perfectly normal all the same. She pondered for a short moment on whether or not they could be ticklish: it was probable he didn't know, and further probable that they were. He was an unusually ticklish fellow – especially compared to herself. She felt a little bit like him in this moment, just examining all of his small movements. He would become lost in the essence of her sometimes, and it was unnerving if not also flattering.

She was glad to see him in nightclothes, _that sounds odd_ – more accurately, she was glad to know that he _did_ wear nightclothes and didn't sleep in his everyday formal attire. Though she noted they weren't any less fashionable (it seemed he had impeccable taste in style), simply more comfy and snug (though she wondered if those feet of his were cold). His robe was a truly beautiful one, a dark auburn with gold stitching around the cuffs and the collar – it was cinched tightly around his waist, and it accentuated his lean, catlike body structure. She had compared him to a cat before, once she'd found a book with depictions of several different wild animals and had spent the entire evening discerning which one he was most like. _Definitely some sort of cat_ , she'd determined, _a lion? He is a bit histrionic, isn't_ _he? Hmm. No, perhaps a cheetah is more like it? Quick and sleek._

"A black panther," the man in question had said as he peered over her shoulder – Christine's face had turned a bright pink, wondering if she had been speaking aloud, but when she reviewed the page before her, she realized (with relief) that he was just commenting on what he saw there... or at least, that's what she hoped, "What spectacularly foreboding creatures compared to their lighter siblings – dark and predatory, but not without elegance, wouldn't you say, Christine?"

_A black panther..._

"I couldn't agree more."

"You know, one particular variation – the black cougar – is legendary and known for its symbolization of Death in some civilizations. Is that not fascinating?"

_Most definitely a black panther._

"Remarkably – if not also a bit sinister."

"I should think so." And with those last words he had slunk away, graceful and feline as ever.

"Thank you," she repeated, eating away at her scone as he set down her water before her and his own glass of brandy, "I know you must be so exhausted after everything with – " He shook his head and wagged his forefinger, taking a seat beside her at the quaint little kitchen table.

"In the morning," he reminded her, "we will talk about it in the morning. But for now, focus your energies on finishing that and calming yourself down, hm?" He took a reverent sip of his brandy. Christine herself was fond of a bit of wine on occasion, but she didn't care all that much for any other alcoholic beverages. She did, however, rather admire her husband's cultivated knowledge on various liquors, as well as his formidable collection of such. One of the few times that she had been in his room in the past half a year was when he had taken her to the well-stocked wine cellar below it – the barrels of gunpowder had been removed (and she did not dare point it out), but the dark memories still stirred and she couldn't help cringing as she recalled _that day_. He distracted her soon enough with the history of the vintages – some were truly of the _very_ finest qualities, and she grew lost in the ethereal tone of his voice while he recounted and explained.

He said that he liked to collect them – meaning they were more for show than anything else. But he had acquiesced to sharing one of the more exquisite choices with her, it appeared that the idea of ending an evening in such an exceptionally ordinary and romantic way was simply too much temptation for him to refuse. But that had been the extent of the wine cellar ventures, though they would indulge in a glass every now and then during or right after dinner. Erik did not approve of inebriation, of course; such an idea was a rather repugnant one to him. In his personal and educated opinion, these were things to be kept in reverence! For how can one wholly appreciate the honeyed bouquet of a nobly aged Sauternes or the cordial burn of a superlative brandy if one is too busy bumbling about like some brainless buffoon? The answer, he had verified, was extraordinarily simple: one _cannot._ No, if there was alcohol to be had, it was to be respected for the work of art that it was or it was not to be had at all! That did not mean, however, that it couldn't be used to _calm_ one's senses, so long as one didn't _lose_ one's senses (hence the glass he had decided to procure just a moment ago).

They had remained in agreeable silence for awhile, quietly listening to the sound of rain outside: that is, until she saw the lightning flash in the window beside her and the heart-stopping sound that followed. With a squeak, she grabbed his hand where it curved around the glass before him on the table. She'd almost knocked it over.

"Oh, Erik, I'm sorry! I am just so afraid of it – don't let go of my hand, please." He had been startled by the sudden movement, but at her words hastily maneuvered his glass out of the way and sandwiched her hand in between both of his. She was far more important than any brandy, now wasn't she? Yes, this was his angel, his love, his music, his Christine, and she _needed him_.

"Never." He assured her, rubbing her wrist and the top of her hand, hoping to pacify her... and himself. She had such soft skin, warm and lovely.

"Are _you_ afraid of it?" She was absolutely sincere, holding his hand tighter.

"Would it make you feel better to know I am?"

"You are?"

"That's not what I said." She was about to respond but was silenced by another grumble from the storm, "Hush, it's alright. You are alright, Christine. Give me your other hand." Christine set down the half-eaten scone and did as she was told. He took to massaging the knuckles of that one as he had with the other, glad when she sighed and her breathing evened out, if only a little.

"So, you aren't afraid?" She began again.

"That's not what I said either."

"Well, what did you say then?"

"I asked if knowing I was afraid would make you feel better."

"No... I don't know, it could. I'm only curious." _Aren't you just, my inquisitive darling?  
_

"I do not have an exceptional amount of fond memories regarding storms," he admitted, "but as much as they have hindered, they have enabled. They do not incite any great feelings of terror within me – there are few things that do... Erik is more afraid of you being afraid than he is of any storm." And it was true, for any one specific reason, he could not choose: there were several. Her fear could lead to her leaving him, her fear could bring her to him, her fear may mean he was hurting her – he did not want to be the cause of her fear. He rather wished that humans did not have that bothersome emotion: it would make his life so much more easier.

"Afraid of me being afraid?"

"Your fear is quite daunting. Are you feeling any better?" She was happy to note that she was no longer springing into the air at every thunderclap, though she could not keep herself from flinching. At her nod he suggested that they go back upstairs so she could try to go to sleep again. She accepted the suggestion, downing her glass of water and finishing her scone. He offered to tuck her in and it had made her smile, though the smile was quickly swept away by another roll of thunder. _At this rate, it is very unlikely I will ever be able to get to sleep_.

"Erik?" He fluffed the pillow beneath her head and hummed in response, "stay with me?" He creased his absent brows while she continued, "You... you don't have to, if you don't want to. I know... tomorrow may be difficult," he tutted, "I just... I – " she started as she heard another even if somewhat quieter rumble, "I _am_ calmer, and I am very grateful for what you did for me downstairs, it really did help, and I know you are probably very tired, only... only I do not think I will be able to bear it alone, it would make me feel much more safe and secure if you would stay." His eyes widened when he finally reached understanding.

"You wish for me to stay?" She nodded, "With you?" She nodded again, "How?" He was completely serious.

"However you're more comfortable, I mean, you can lay beside me or sit in the chair – though I rather doubt _that_ would be comfortable, I want you to get some sleep, too, I know you don't get very much, or at least I don't think you do, just... I would like you to stay nearby." He pulled the covers up to her chin.

"Christine, I am not so sure if that is a good idea."

"Okay," she said quickly, "It's alright, I understand." Unfortunately, Christine's husband was well-attuned to the tones of her sweet voice, and thus the disappointment she tried so hard to cover up was easily traceable and it broke his already aching heart.

"This is what we will do; we shall make a deal. Erik will sing to you and if you _still_ cannot sleep after that then he promises to stay. Fair?" She could agree to that, in either circumstance they would be able to get some sleep. And so he brought the chair to the side of her bed and began a soft as light lullaby; it was a croon and it implored her – begged her to close those heavy lids, to put a rest to her frightened mind. It was not long before (even with the rolling thunder) she was relaxed enough to begin to doze off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I'm just imagining the daroga walking in on Erik absolutely hammered one day and the daroga being all like, "Whatever happened to 'if ever there is alcohol to be had, it is either to be respected for the work of art that it is or it is not to be had at all!' hm?"
> 
> "Oh, do shut up, daroga! I shall have you know that I am perfectly in control of all of my senses, actions, and various bodily functions, thank you very much!" Hiccough! An eyebrow raises, "Stop looking at me like that, you great big booby, and leave before I decide to rid myself of you in a decidedly less civil manner!" Hiccough! Groan. Sudden collapse to floor, "Why… daroga, when…" Hiccough! "When did you get here? Do you see those odd little chickens flying above my head? What curious things they are! Oh! They don't have heads!" Hiccough! "How fascinating!"
> 
> "I do believe it's time you took a nap, Erik. Come on, up you go!"
> 
> "Nap time… yes. Yes, you know, that sounds quite nice. Where are my compositions? I should like to sleep in a cocoon of them! Is that not a brilliant idea? The best idea I've ever had!" Hiccough! "Daroga… " Groan, "remind me… to never drink again… I do think… I am about to dispel the contents of my stomach, if you will excuse me." Erik-stomach-contents everywhere, most especially on the daroga's shoes. Poor, unhappy daroga.


	19. Merely Decoration

His Christine was such a peculiar thing, Erik realized – to search him out in her fear and want him to stay even while she had just learned what he had done – even while she had discovered he had betrayed her. It made him angry that she could be even the slightest bit upset for the viscount, she couldn't very well have the both of them, now could she? She can't be worrying about past suitors when she has a husband! But he knew better than that. She was not in love with the boy... was she? _No, she loves Erik,_ he assured himself, _that is why she came to him just now, why she had calmed when he held her precious fingers in his own death's hands, why she had asked him to stay_.

There was no other explanation. Reason bade him to understand that she simply didn't like the idea of her friend being hurt – no, she did not like the idea of _anyone_ being hurt, his poor girl. But Jealousy... Jealousy was an old companion with a rather persuasive and familiar argument. He was quite sure he'd known Jealousy and its painful brother Envy all of his life. Giving into those insecurities was a force of habit, really. And then there was Self-Loathing, he had been taught Self-Loathing: it seems that when everyone else hates you, it's unbelievably easy to do the same. He felt its sting now. How could he have betrayed her trust? Had he not promised her he would be as gentle as a lamb, but a dog willing to die for her; that he was not so wicked; that he would be a _good_ man if only he was loved? And he _was_ loved. He could not deny it any longer, he was loved and wanted and _needed_. This was proof enough. Yesterday – those kisses! Oh, she had let him kiss her! And her speech! Her declaration – when her very soul addressed his own! But she had not known then; she had not known what a contemptible, vile sham of a man he really was. But he had let the boy go! Yes, and it was very troublesome when he had. Erik had been certain he should've kept him locked up indefinitely, especially when letting him go had induced his Persian fly to start buzzing about. _Ah, but then the daroga would've probably found any reason to bother me, the nosy nincompoop!_ No, it would've been very bad – much worse, perhaps, had he kept the boy. And what sort of good man keeps his wife's ex-fiancé imprisoned in old Communard dungeons?

She had asked if he had hurt him. Erik could not lie to her, he had lost all sense... and those bright blue eyes were staring down at him with such accusation and pain. He had to tell her. Yes, yes he had hurt him. He had beat him with the same hands he had held her with – not enough to kill him, no. He didn't mutilate him, as he fancied doing every once and awhile. It would be justice, would it not? For that pretty face to be made as ugly as his own. It would be an equitable punishment, yes? For loving Erik's Christine – for _kissing_ her. Ah, but alas: Erik had never hurt him unless it was absolutely necessary. Yet, necessity was a curious thing to Erik – he was sure that if he wanted something, he could probably find any way to make it a necessity. He had wanted Christine and so he'd stolen her, assuring himself that she was necessity. _But then I gave her her freedom... and she did not take it, wonderful woman. She probably should've, I know she should've, but by God, she didn't!_

He did not _really_ want to hurt the boy... well, alright, he did. He _really, really_ did. He was such a whiny little whelp, he could be quite annoying. In fact, Erik had taken to drugging him often just to get him to shut up. But beating him? He had only done it once, really. Oh, there would be a good slap or throttle here and there whenever the thing acted disrespectfully, but nothing as injurious as that first beating. He didn't want to have to. It had been in the first week. But the nasty creature had been spiting him all day – insulting him. That could not be condoned. He bit the hand that fed him! No food for days. Those wounds would have to heal by themselves, they were earned quite nobly, weren't they! But eventually, Erik had begun to feel sorry for the child, if that was believable. It wasn't _the boy's_ fault he had fallen in love with Erik's wife, was it? Just a cruel trick of fate. And now he was alone and suffering at the hands of a madman – well, mad-corpse. Erik only kept him in that first month, perhaps two. He wasn't sure now. It seemed so long ago. In the end, he knew Christine would not leave him, he was not sure if she would do anything at all but stare and float around the apartment like a ghost. He nursed the boy back to good health, and deposited him on the daroga's doorstep ( _it was basically an invitation to the great booby, wasn't it?_ ).

And after he had done it, he'd thought about sending her away. End all of their misery, no? But then Christine had suddenly changed. It was as if she had known he set her boy free: oh, and he had been so afraid that she _had_ known! But he could not worry about it for very long, not when she had begun to be so... so _alive_ and promised to _love him_. Everything had been going so wonderfully, hadn't it? With Christine's love and companionship, her precious kisses and her caring caresses. The new house: he was sure she would love it. And he had begun thinking of her retaking that sought-after position as the Opéra Garnier's Prima Donna – if only she wanted to, of course. She would astound Paris once again! The world! Oh, but then he opened his big mouth! Why had he not kept silent? Why had he lost control? Why had he been so cruel as to hurt that young man? What if she had not spoken soon enough only a short while ago? What would he have done? _Why am I such a bad man?_ He asked himself, longing to crumple to the floor and wail, but he was not finished singing. The angel did not know what her monster was thinking – no, she was only listening, drifting and falling. _Why does she stay?_ He understood nothing in regards to that. He told himself perhaps it was his music, which he would be fine with: he was happy if all she could enjoy was his music, as long as she was enjoying something and staying. And that would give him a reason to go back on his proclamation of not being wicked – _no, Christine, you see, you did not love Erik for himself, you loved him for his music, which is quite alright, but it's not the same as being loved for oneself, and so, naturally, that is why Erik is still so wicked, that is why he kept your young man and hurt him._

But he was wrong, he knew. It... it seemed she _did_ want him... she _loved_ him... for himself. _Will she want me now_? He wondered, the greatest question filtering through his mind. He could not bear it if she left him now because of this; he would let her, he did not doubt it. He would _let_ her. He would take that dagger and merrily stab his own heart; he would twist it so he may feel every bit of pain it had to offer. He ended his song, sure that she was untroubled and fast asleep now, and when he left, he left in the opposite condition – with his heart pounding out of his chest and his cool palms sweating, with the knowledge that he would not be getting any more sleep tonight. But he would not have much time to himself, for as soon as he began to place one foot into his own room he heard the door beside him burst open and saw his dear Christine running to him with terror-stricken eyes. She shook her head and he sighed, accepting her embrace. _She needs me. Oh God, please, do not take her from me, though I do not deserve her. I deserve nothing less than death, I know it. But to lose her would be a fate worse than death! I could not bear it! If I could just keep her, I could change... I would be a good man. I know I would. That is what I am when I have her. I am a good man. Aren't I? Oh, I am nothing without her_ , he fervently prayed as he felt tears prickle in his eyes.

"It worked for awhile..." she whispered, "but then as soon as you were gone, there was more thunder and – and I woke up straightaway. Are you going to stay with me? I know you made that deal... but it's alright if you still don't want to, I don't want you to be uncomfortable if sleeping in the same room with me makes you uncomfortable."

"No! No, of course not, Christine... I shall stay, if that is what you wish."

"I want to get _some_ sleep."

"As do I."

"Then it's settled."

"I suppose it is." Christine couldn't help but notice how nearly... defeated he sounded. It bothered her a little. She settled back into her bed, watching as Erik fidgeted a little and then at last decided to sit back into the chair he had been sitting in before.

"You... you don't have to, I really don't mind, Erik. You can sit above the covers if you want, or I can if you're cold." He almost laughed at the thought of him forcing her to sleep on the top of the covers, she might as well have suggested that he make her sleep on the floor – or in the same dungeons he had chained the boy in – or in the boughs of Hell (not that there was much of a difference between the latter two).

"I mean it." She said, "That chair doesn't even have arms to rest on. Come on..." And then the angel scooted back a little and patted the spot in front of her. His heart leapt into his throat. He'd done it before, hadn't he? Laid beside her? Yes, and he'd been smacked and kicked for it... probably for good reason. But then she was looking at him with so much earnest, and he had promised to stay with her... and if he was being honest with himself, he would admit that he wanted nothing more than to be as near to her as she would allow. He wanted to hold her and to be held by her. He needed her soft arms around him. He had asked for as much before and she had given freely, but she had convinced him he was worthy then. Even worthy enough to embrace her _without_ asking.

More than once over the last month he had given into that desire to bound her up in his arms. The first time he had done it without her permission, spoken or unspoken, he had felt like the dirtiest, most despicable thing to ever roam the earth. But she had not been bothered: she had giggled! She blessed the air with that magnificent, bell-like laugh and it took his breath away. He had returned home to the smell of baking – she was an adequate cook, but there was no doubt that he was the more established of the two, and hence he made most of the meals. But oh, his Christine's baking skills were... quite sublime. He had been somewhat upset when she had first tried to bake for him, he begged her to allow him to take care of her and assured her that he was fine without. But one bite of that delightfully spiced pastry and he had been sufficiently won over. She devoured all of the baking sections of his cook books, savoring all of the new ideas and recipes she would be able to try out. She had even joked that perhaps she may be able to fatten Erik up (though that endeavor would prove in vain, it seemed that though he was fairly appreciative of her baking expertise, he would forever be confined to his deathly skinny mold).

However, if anything convinced him that supporting her in her baking aspirations was a good idea, it was how splendidly _domestic_ it felt on days like this to come home to his darling wife humming in the kitchen and making a delicious treat they would later share together. She had been humming so beautifully; he could recognize the tune as the Chopin piece he had played for her the night before. Ah, his heart fluttered like a butterfly's wings as he took off his cloak, hat, and mask. He was smiling, _actually smiling_ , while he adjusted his tie and removed his gloves. It had been a very chilly evening, even for one who was as used to the cold as him, and he relished in the warmth of his home – made brighter and warmer by the grin and song of the lovely lady in the next room. She did not hear him enter (otherwise she would've greeted him), but he did not mind. He was glad to watch her distracted and flitting about the kitchen while she added last minute touches to her masterpiece. Nothing was quite so delectable as she, with her hair half-up in a bun and half-down in glorious golden curls, singing and placing a layer of no-doubt-scrumptious marzipan atop her cake. He could not help himself! He dared, he _actually dared_ , to come up from behind her and wrap his arms around her. He nuzzled what he had for a nose against her marvelously soft hair; everything about her was cozy, cuddly, and simply felt of _home_. She had yelped (to his dismay, he thought to release her immediately) but then she giggled so endearingly, and he found himself tightening his hold.

"Hello!" She greeted in Swedish – it was such an enchanting language on her lips – still bursting with sweet giggles and now leaning against him.

"Hello, my wife." he responded in kind, looking over her shoulder at the sweet she had prepared, "Ah, I see!" he proclaimed, "A classic Swedish dessert; that explains. Prinsesstårta, am I correct?"

"Yes, it's one of my favourites – don't you dare, you silly man!" She returned to French, lightly smacking at his hand as he attempted to steal a bit of that marzipan. His chuckle was a charming one that reverberated against her back, and it brought about her own bell-tinkling laughter once more, "I'm not finished yet."

"Oh, but what else is there?" He pouted, his fingers possessively dancing across her waist seemingly of their own accord, "I am quite sure that's all of the layers."

"No, I must dust it with sugar and add the strawberry on top."

"That is merely decoration."

She tsked, "It is _art_ and as an artist, Erik, I would think you would be more understanding – but, I _suppose_ we can do without the extra sugar. I shall not waver on the strawberry, however." As best as she could, being clamped against him, she went to grab for the bowl of strawberries in the upper right corner of the kitchen counter. But then it vanished right before her eyes – it only took her millisecond before she realized he had taken them! With one arm still tightly wound about her, he lifted the bowl high up in the air and away from her, laughing as she yelled at him and tried to escape from his hold.

"Strawberries?" He asked her playfully, "What strawberries? I'm afraid I don't see any, Christine!"

"You fiend!" She exclaimed, managing to turn in his grasp but failing in her attempt to retrieve her desired target, "Give me it!"

"Oh, alright, compose yourself – you are acting like a madwoman, rather unbecoming of a lady, don't you think?" He said, setting the bowl on the table behind him. His statement, however, did not echo his true thoughts. If her twinkling eyes, determined gaze, expressive pout, and bouncing curls were anything – they were becoming. _Very, very becoming._

"What are you doing?" Her tone was wary as she watched him grab a single strawberry, his golden eyes never leaving her own.

"Placing the strawberry on top, silly girl." He shook his head as he inched closer – her heart thumping as she found herself trapped between him and the kitchen counter. And then he was all but hugging her as he reached over and set the strawberry in the middle of the cake, letting his cheek rest on the side of her head. She sighed, pleasantly surprising him by bringing her arms around his neck and returning his half-embrace.

"You're sweet." She sounded so loving, and it warmed his heart (he had never been called 'sweet' before, what a strange thing)... it also made him chuckle, but for a different reason.

"So, my dear, is this cake." Her head moved away from the crook of his neck and her eyes darted to him, finding that he was in the process of eating a piece of her pastry.

"Erik!"

"You really ought to have some." He laughed, picking off another chunk and bringing it up to her mouth as she grumbled, "Come now, my little pâtissier, open up." She wrinkled her adorable nose at him, but then (to his slight astonishment) parted her lips – he could not help but notice her reddening cheeks. _How prettily she blushes_ , he thought, _what perfection_. He placed the small bit of cake between her teeth, trying to ignore the shiver down his spine when his bare fingers brushed against her bottom lip, "Astoundingly tasteful, is it not?" Her answer had been standing on her tiptoes and making his face flush as darkly as hers with a bold kiss to his withered cheek.

* * *


	20. The Morning

Erik knew now that he was not even worthy to breathe the same air as Christine. Oh, but God forgive him, she shuddered violently at another sound of the thunder and he couldn't bear to turn from her. He got up hesitantly in the case she may choose to change her mind and he could bolt as quickly as the both of them surely wished he would! But she held firm, her eyes looking into his with nothing more than encouragement and hopefulness. He sat down and over the course of approximately the next three minutes eased himself across the covers. She curled up beside him, not quite touching, but very close, with her hand on the pillow beside her sweet face and her eyes filled with gratefulness as they set upon him, but then something flashed in their expression and her soft smile faltered. He turned his head to face her – prepared to take his leave at any moment.

"Erik..." Something that he loved dearly about his Christine was that she called him by name so often – not the Angel of Music, not the Phantom, not the Living Dead, only Erik – _her Erik_. It filled him with utter bliss whenever he heard it, the way she said it in that very slight East Scandinavian accent she did not entirely know she had. Oh, she said it so sublimely – she made it music... because she _was_ music! Music incarnate! Sometimes he would dare to watch her lips as she said it, relishing in the idea that _his_ wretched name (self-chosen or not) was in this divine creature's mouth, "I just... wanted you to know..." He held his breath when she moved closer, curling her fingers around one of the hands that lay on his chest, "I will be here, beside you, as long as you want me to be. Just... keep that in mind, alright? And – and Erik?"

"Yes?" His beautiful voice was strained.

"Trust me." He swallowed thickly and put his other hand atop hers. She had very small hands compared to his – elegant with lovely, delicate fingers. They were slender, but not abnormally so; no, they were perfect. Cushioned with soft, warm flesh, and only a hint of the bone that lay beneath. During the first few months that she had been here, she had grown unhealthily skinny, he had been so afraid she was dying. Her hands had become almost as bony as his own, it was agony to watch her waste away like that – but now she was alright, and her hands no longer trembled with frailty, and her cheeks were pink, and she would smile. Oh, her smile gave him life! He loved her hands though, so precious and _warm_ in his own – even when the sweet flower had been withering, she was always warm. He wondered what it was like to constantly be so remarkably warm.

_Trust me,_ she said. He did! More than he had ever trusted anyone in his entire life, because he had never trusted anyone in his entire life. He did not know how to trust. Did not know what it meant. But he saw it in her eyes on a regular basis – trusting him. _She trusted him_. She would stay with him, even though she knew what he had done. He wanted to justify himself... and he could, they were old and exhausted arguments he was unbelievably familiar with. But _she_ wouldn't understand! – wouldn't understand the crippling fear nor the desperate need; wouldn't know how in every sense of the meaning he could not live without her; wouldn't comprehend how greatly he had struggled to let her go and now continued to struggle with not seeing her as something to own, but as a living thing whose privacy and independence should be respected and valued. He had never been responsible for the wellbeing of anything other than himself before. It was difficult to learn how to accept something but not possess it; to let her choose no matter how afraid he was of her choice.

She had chosen to stay by his side! And yet it was just as frightening as her choosing to leave. He knew he did things that made her unhappy, some he understood and others he did not, but it made him nervous – it drove him mad! But she kept giving him second chances, she constantly forgave him, and _trusted_ him to do better. How many times would he have to mess up until she decided she had had enough? How many times would he fail until she gave up on him? How many times would he do something wrong before she would not forgive? He didn't want to think of it, but Self-Loathing whispered in his ear... _she doesn't really love you and she never will_.

"Christine?"

"Yes?"

"Are you there?"

"Yes." She was quick to answer, waiting for his usual breath of relief and growing perplexed when she did not hear it.

"Do you truly love me, Christine?" _Ah,_ she thought, moving her hand from his. At first he grew worried, and tears collected in his eyes as he feared what he knew _must_ be true. _I told you_ , Self-Loathing taunted, _she_ _doesn't love you_. But then he inhaled sharply as she sat up to hover over him, her hand moving over his chest and then coming to rest on his cheek. He could not help but observe how much she looked like an angel now, with her curls flowing wild about her glowing face, and her eyes bright and _loving_ : the sort of love that covers the homeless man in the dead of a cold night or holds the bruised child until it no longer cries or lays down its life for a perfect stranger. Godly, heavenly love – it was shining in her blue eyes as she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his furrowed brow.

"Of course I do, Erik. Never doubt it for a moment." He began to weep, sitting up to wrap his arms around her and bury his face into the crook of her neck.

"I am... _terrified_..." She nodded, resting against him in this awkward and desperate embrace, "of losing you."

"I know, Erik. I don't want to lose you either."

"After... after everything?"

"You let him go, didn't you?"

"Yes, Christine! Yes, I swear, I let him go!"

"Did you let him go because of me?"

"I told you, Erik let the boy go after he had been sure you would not leave... you were so heartbroken all of the time, Christine, but I knew you would not leave Erik: you had bound yourself to Death. There was nothing to gain by keeping the boy: I let him go. And then you changed! So suddenly, Erik had almost thought... but he had been wrong, no, you did not know."

"And you did... you did hurt him?" He whimpered, but then murmured a pitiable yes.

"Did you hurt him beyond repair?" One of her worst thoughts was that he may have mutilated Raoul out of spite; that he may have slashed his beautiful features apart for the sake of his own ugly ones. She held back a sigh of utter relief as he shook his head vigorously.

"No! I swear to you, Christine, that by the end of his stay," _stay_ , "he was very much the same as he was when he arrived; he was right as rain, even if his mind was addled." _Addled?_ She still felt nervous, unbelievably nervous and upset.

"Did Nadir know?" He looked up at her wide-eyed and gave a curt nod of his head, "I think he almost told me." His eyes flashed with fury, but she put her hand to his mouth, effectively silencing him when her fingers lightly brushed over his twisted lips, "He didn't, but even if he had, Erik, it would've been his right to tell me: it would have been _my right_ to know." He remained silent as she caressed under his sunken eyes, wiping at the tears beginning to flow, "Erik... you must tell me the truth... did you... was it you... you who killed Philippe, Raoul's brother?"

"No... no, that _–_ that was an accident! A very... very sad accident. He fell, you see, he only fell into the lake. He was dead by the time I left the house, Christine, surely you must believe me."

"Erik..." She said sadly.

"Believe me, Christine! Why won't you believe me? There are many things I have done wrong but that is not one of them: I am not the murderer of Philippe de Chagny. I am innocent of that sin, I swear it!" Her sigh was heavy, and it pained Erik to know he was the cause.

"Whether or no, Erik, what you did to Raoul... you know I think it was wrong, and I think a large part of you knows it was wrong, too, and even feels sincerely sorry for it. I cannot say I do not feel betrayed or hurt or that it's going to be easy for me to trust you after knowing what you did... it is something that you will have to earn, but it is something that – if you do not let your pride get the better of you – I know you _can_ earn. I _do_ wish you hadn't done what you did – it was horrible, Erik... _horrible_... and after I had _promised_... there was nothing that Raoul could've done, he was innocent... and you..." She stopped herself, "but Erik... I do not hate you nor am I going to leave you."

She shifted to find a more restful spot next to him, but unwilling to risk letting her be apart from him for even a moment he tightened his grip and pulled her back until she sat sideways on his lap. She almost protested, but then realized she felt more content in this position anyway. He rested his forehead to her collarbone, crying until she felt his tears seep through her nightgown. _You have cried too many tears:_ we _have cried too many tears_ , she thought, taking to petting his soft, dark hair. His hair was very thin, though it covered enough of his scalp. He had a sharp but receding widow's peak, and she could make out bits of grey here and there, mostly about his short sideburns and at the roots – it caused her to think of how old her husband was. She had once asked him directly (as there had been times when they had referred to or skirted about it before) after he had taken her on a late nighttime tour around the opera house and explained to her how he had assisted Charles Garnier in its construction. She'd marveled and thoroughly enjoyed listening to his expert knowledge of the building, but it had been when they had returned and she was about to get ready for bed that a thought occurred to her. With a tilt of her head she questioned, "How old were you?" He took her shawl and put it away with his cloak while she elaborated, "– when you helped build this?"

He thought for a moment, removing his mask and then shrugging, "I would imagine that I was younger than I am now."

"Well, of course you were, it was more than twenty years ago. But, I mean: what was your age?"

"No, curious one, I do believe _you mean_ what _is_ my age." Her face warmed and she glanced down at her shoes to hide the guilty look in her eye. With a sigh he gestured for her to take a seat on the sofa and she followed the instruction hastily, eager to hear what he was gathering the motivation to say.

He began to pace a short distance, watching her from the corner of his eye, "I have made several conclusions regarding the number of years I have spent on this earth – one is, quite obviously, that I have spent many. Erik is not a young man but neither is he an elderly one. I should think that if I was very old I would not be so stealthy and strong. Yet I was alive long before the end of Napoleon's reign and the crowning of Oscar II on the throne of Sweden-Norway; and I have seen empires rise and fall – I have even played a grand if not an imperceptibly essential part in a few of their conceptions and demises." Confusion etched across her features and he paused to examine what may be causing it, at his realization he confirmed, "Erik has not told you his age out of some puerile apprehension or embarrassment, Christine, but because he himself does not know it. Do you understand?" He took a step forward and continued, "I do not know the exact date of my birth, only that I was probably born during the July Monarchy. The first year I remember cognitively comprehending as a current period in time was 1867, but by then I was already a grown man and working under the employment of the Shah."

All she could manage was an ' _oh_.' She should've known! He did not know his name, why had she thought he may know his age? He scrutinized and dissected the soft sound she emitted, unable to tell if it was one of displeasure or simply understanding. He'd said it had nothing to do with a childish nervousness over her opinion of his age, he had expressed that it wasn't because he was afraid of what she may think – but the fact of the matter was that that was _precisely_ why he had not already told her "how old he was". He was about to ask her if it was distressing news when her voice cut through his disquieted thoughts.

"How old do you think you are?"

"I assume I am middle-aged."

"But if you had to give yourself a specific age, what would you say?"

"I would say it doesn't matter. Age has never been important to me, why should it be now?"

"Because it's important to me." She offered.

"Why should Erik's age matter to his wife? Do you want to torture yourself knowing that you are married to an old, nameless corpse? No," he said with new understanding, "you wish to torture _him_! To make him pay again and again for his crimes! Why must you remind him how worthless, wretched, and accursed he is?"

"No! That's not it, Erik. I would never want to torture you. I just... I want to know you better, like I always do." He fought the urge to sob and fall to his knees and she must have noticed the rising emotions because she gestured for him to sit next to her, speaking in that soft, motherly tone he despised and adored. He didn't know how to ignore the angelic command to come to her and so as shyly as a child about to be reprimanded he obeyed, holding back tears as she put one hand at the nape of his neck and another on his forearm, "You are not worthless, wretched, or accursed, Erik."

"Oh, Christine... I do not deserve such a wonderful wife: so young and beautiful while I am so decrepit and ugly."

"I am not that young and you are not that old."

"I am old enough to be your father."

"That's not too abnormal amongst many couples... if I recall correctly, Mamma Valerius and her husband were thirteen years apart if not more."

"I believe _I_ am at least _twice_ your age, Christine." Looking to her for approval first (and ecstatic to receive it), he rested his head on her shoulder, while her arms cradled him to her.

"Does it bother you?" She asked.

"It _agonizes_ me that it bothers _you_."

"But it doesn't bother me, Erik." He released a shaky breath, letting his hands come to her waist loosely.

"What if I told you I thought I was fifty, would it bother you?"

"No."

"Sixty?"

"No."

"Seventy?"

"You are _not_ seventy."

"Never mind that: what if I was?"

She sighed, "I suppose you will be someday, I won't care."

"Nevertheless – what if I was seventy at this very moment?"

"Then I would say you are quite spry for your age."

"I am."

"You mean to tell me you really _are_ seventy?"

"Heavens no! I was only agreeing to your statement that I am quite spry for my age. No, silly wife, if I had to give myself a specific age I would give myself forty, no more and no less."

"Hm, and how long have you been forty?"

He pulled away, "About ten years."

She stifled a rather unladylike snort and then gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek, "Goodnight, Erik, I really did have a lovely time." Flustered, he straightened and made a small noise similar to clearing his throat before responding with an unnerved but reverent, "Goodnight, Christine. Have pleasant dreams."

With a gentle pat on his shoulder, she stood and waved goodbye before retiring to her bedroom. Afterwards, she continued to ponder on what his precise age may be and had even taken to asking him occasionally and casually (and somewhat sneakily) if he was alive for a certain event or incident. Eventually she estimated that he was likely forty-eight to fifty-four what with being born a little bit before the Second French Republic – it made sense in retrospect to the Louis-Philippe room. He really was old enough to be her father, he was only (presumably) a few years younger than how old her Papa would've been now. But oddly enough, it truly wasn't unsettling to her (as much as she felt it should be)... perhaps it was because despite all the years he had lived, he was about on the same level of maturity as herself (sometimes even less in some circumstances).

Though there was also something undeniably guardian-like about him (there always had been), he often took care of her like Mamma Valerius and her Papa had, he guided her sensibly in many things – an example would be her childish reaction to that zit. Ugh, and it was still there... she could feel it, perched villainously upon her innocent cheek. After all, he _had_ said _two_ days, hadn't he? Still, she couldn't help but hope that maybe it would go away in less than a few hours with the first application of that cream. But even in his sensibility, he desperately needed someone – needed her, and in such a way that it could be very childlike. _We're really just two little orphans, aren't we?_ She thought, coming to a similar conclusion her Erik had made not so long ago, _two little orphans who need each other._


	21. Ears

She smoothed his hair back just as she had done yesterday when they had sat in the rain; in all of that despair and misunderstanding – and she relished how he did not flinch, though his breaths became quicker and sharp. His hair was usually combed very neatly, it was a bit peculiar to see it all mussed now with some of it falling beside and over his eyes and ears. _Ears_ , she noted, _decidedly_ _normal ears._ She let her fingers linger at his right one, curving the outline, noting how the lobe was unattached whereas hers were.

_Corpses don't have ears._

"My dear," he began, distracting her from her thoughts and looking up at her, "I do believe I said something about _in the morning_." She guffawed.

"It _is_ in the morning." He turned his head to look out the window, it was just as dark as before, but a glance up at the clock fastened to the wall told him it was ten to six. He let out an indignant humph.

"I seem to recall specifying _daylight._ "

" _Yes_ ," she said, "but then you said _in the morning_ three times... four times, actually."

" _Yes_ ," he replied in a similar tone, "as in, _I-have-actually-acquired-sleep in the_ _morning._ "

"Well, it's too late anyway, so we can just sleep through the rest of the day without worrying about discussing anything harrowing as soon as we awake. It's still dark... and that dreadful storm is still going... though less thunder, I think." She began to move away but he clutched at her.

"Christine?" He said in a voice tinged with anxiety.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing... nothing's wrong." Though he would not release her, "Only... only, I am sorry... can you ever... ever forgive your Erik? He knows he promised he is not a wicked man – and Christine, he is not! I promise! I am not so bad – just give me time. Tell me I am not so wicked, Christine. Erik does not want to be. Can you ever forgive him? Oh, he does not want to be a bad man." She returned his embrace fully then.

"No, no, Erik, you're not wicked... only... only you have done wicked deeds. But yes, I... I forgive you. However, some things need to be understood and changed." He closed his eyes so he would not have to look into her own piercing gaze: sometimes he was quite sure she could see into the very depths of his tattered soul, "You must not keep any more secrets from me." He nodded profusely, forcing himself to reopen his eyes.

"Never; no more. No more secrets from you."

"You must not hurt anyone anymore, accident or otherwise, unless in defense."

"Erik has never harmed anyone except for out of defense."

"And no more lying. I know better, Erik, _you_ know better. Stop using your masks."

"I am not using a mask, Christine." But she could hear it in his voice; he knew what she meant.

"Erik, please."

"When I told you that I did not feel capable of killing any longer, I was not lying. I have not harmed another living being save for the occasional bothersome fly for long over four months now." _Since Raoul_ , she filled in.

" _Bothersome fly?_ That's what you call M. Khan..."

"Why must you think everything I say is word-play or harbours a double meaning? When I say bothersome fly, I mean just that."

She sighed, "Alright, I believe you. But Erik, you must promise me that you will continue not to harm anyone. Most of all, you must promise that if Raoul or M. Khan do anything that you will leave things to _me_. You let me calmly explain, you trust me to handle them, you trust me to stay, you trust me to ask you for help if _I_ deem it necessary. Can you do that, Erik? Can you promise me?" He began shaking his head then.

"I can't... I can't!" To her dismay, he pushed her away and balled his hands up to his face, "If they come they will perish! They will burn! They will! I promise you _that_!"

"No, they will not." She put her hand on one of the knees he had pulled up to his chest, "Because you are _not_ a bad man, Erik. You are a good man, and you will not let them get hurt – _you_ will _not_ hurt them: you will trust me."

"What happens to Erik when you leave him? When they turn you against him? He could not bear the agony! Please, Christine! Do not make him promise such a thing!"

"Marriage is comprised of compromise and trust, Erik – so trust me! Prove to me that I can trust _you_ by trusting me. I won't leave you, I don't want to leave you. _I love you_." He whined and quivered until at last he nodded from behind his fists.

"I promise... if they come... they will not be harmed. Only do not leave me, Christine, never leave me. If you leave me... I cannot promise anything... nothing. I do not know what Erik would do if you left. I am so afraid, Christine. Do not leave me!"

"I won't," she cooed, "I could never." Carefully and gently, she took his hands away from his face. He allowed her, watching bewildered as she kissed the monster's clenched and dangerous knuckles: one by one, she kissed until they opened for her like flowers she'd nurtured in a garden. And even then she did not stop – no, she ran her lips over every facet of his death's hands from the tips of his fingers to his narrow wrist, _how can she?_ He questioned.

"My poor Erik," She said, finally setting his hands down, "I promise I won't leave you." With one last caress to his cheek, she laid back down, pulling the blankets over her shoulder. Tentatively, he lay across the bed once more and as he grew steadily more comfortable, his hands returned to the middle of his chest. His position made Christine wonder if that was how he slept when he was in his coffin – the thought disturbed her. She suddenly felt the desire to tug one of those hands away and cuddle with his arm, but he was still so rigid and anxious that she didn't want to risk startling him, but neither did she want to fall asleep and leave him alone in such a state: thus instead she conversationally asked, "Erik, how long do you usually sleep?" She recalled that first day, when he had taken her below the opera house – he had told her that at times he would stay awake for weeks working on his _Don Juan Triumphant_ and then sleep for years. She once fretted over that, telling him she was not sure what she would do if he ended up sleeping for years: he told her he was not actually certain if he slept for years only that they were long amounts of time, they felt like years. But he recognized her worry and patted her head, telling her that he could never bear to leave his dear Christine for such a remarkably long time.

"It depends." His fingers were twitching.

"On?"

"How long Erik has stayed awake."

"And how long do you usually stay awake?"

"Sometimes days."

"But usually?"

"Forty or some hours."

"So then how long do you usually sleep?"

"Two or eight hours – and I have not gotten more than _one_ hour tonight."

"Would you like to go to sleep now?"

"Yes." She smiled.

"Me, too. Goodnight, Erik."

"Goodnight, Christine." But when she tried to drift off she remembered those bare toes, and heard his fingers drumming apprehensively on his abdomen. No, it wasn't long before she spoke again, "You don't have to stay above the covers." It took him awhile before he gave her a curious response.

"Will you bring it up again if I say no?"

"You don't have to if you don't want to, it's – " He moved so fast she could hardly believe it. It was only the feeling of her warm cocoon being invaded with sudden and extreme cold that assured her he had just joined her beneath the covers, "Ah, you are freezing!"

"Fickle woman! You made your bed, now lie in it, even if your bedmate is ' _freezing!_ '" She was not entirely sure if he was joking or not (he probably wasn't sure either), but the comical gesticulation of his hands and the spine-tingling accurate imitation of her exclamation made her feel like giggling.

"I was merely making an observation, you big block of ice." She stuck her tongue out at him playfully, and it almost made him laugh.

He tutted, "What a child you are." And the lighthearted quality of his voice was enough to warm her from head to toe.

"Child? That's not what you told me yesterday."

"Go to sleep, Christine."

"Now who's fickle?"

"Christine."

"Wait – how long have you been awake?"

"She persists!"

"Just answer the last question and you can sleep."

"Resorting to blackmail, hm? Do I have your word?"

"As honourable as your own."

"If you must know: approximately four days."

"No wonder you are so cranky."

" _Sleep, Christine_."

"Alright, alright..." She turned on her side, looking at the wall and settling into a comfortable spot, "Erik..."

"Wife, I do believe we had an accord on this: I answer your last question, you let me sleep."

"It's not a question, _husband_ , it's a request." He grew quiet at the tone of her voice, feeling slightly bad for having spoken so curtly to her. After everything she had done for him that night, how could he act in such an appallingly rude manner?

"What is your request, my dear?" She shut her eyes tightly at another distant sound of thunder – glad, however, that it was distant.

"Put your arm around me?" His face felt warm, _how had she known?_ He had been taking more time cursing himself for thinking of it than thinking of it, and yet there was no doubt that he _had_ just been thinking of it. He couldn't help but imagine how magnificently blissful it would be to bring his arm around her and bury his face in those curls. He wasn't even certain if that was something husbands and wives did, but it sounded right – it sounded euphoric... he wanted her as close as possible. What would it be like? But it did not matter, because he did not deserve anything as perfect as that. He didn't know _how_ to have anything as perfect as that. All his life he had slept still, cold, and stiff, like a vampire or a _corpse_ in its _grave_ , waiting in the dark for the nightmares to come. They always did. Four in five times they came, as horrifying and painful as ever. Christine made them easier to bear... because sometimes the one out of five was a dream and she was always ever the center of his dreams. Beautiful to see; soft to touch; often she would sing, lull him into a tranquil state where all of the burdens he had ever known were expelled. And even when he endured one of those nightmares, he would wake up, and she would be there – as perfect and wonderful as ever. If her mere presence under the same roof was enough to ease the pain of the night terrors, would sleeping beside her vanquish them altogether? _What an enchanting, unrealistic idea, Erik._ And yet it made as much sense as anything else.

"Christine..." He muttered, nervous and feeling under-qualified on every measure, "Do not be offended if otherwise, I only wish to confirm: did you ask me to put my arm around you?"

"Is that alright?"

"You did then?"

"Yes."

"If... it is what you wish, of course I will... but... Erik does not know how, and..." How odd it felt to be so tongue-tied all the time, how low this glorious woman had brought him.

"That's alright," she turned over to face him, "come here." Timidly, he crept closer, regarding her with caution when she held out her hand and asked for him to give her his own. He did so, and watched as she turned back around, placing his arm around her waist, and then bringing his hand to rest under her cheek. He was so afraid to touch her, he was so near to her, and his arm was ensnared in her loving hold. What if he got too close and she evaporated into thin air? What if he got too close and she shattered into a million pieces? What if he got too close and his proximity _killed_ her? It didn't matter if he had been just as near before or had kissed her or anything of the sort, it could not stop the mad anxieties that spun in his mind now. He began to pull away.

"I can't, Christine, I just can't!" She turned around as he tore himself away. "Don't you understand!" He cried, "I am _unworthy_ , Christine! Erik does not... he does not belong here!"

"Yes, you do." She replied and he grasped her hands tightly, gasping and beginning to cry again.

"Erik _belongs_ in a _coffin_ in the _ground_. You should go back, Christine! Go back to your handsome, young viscount! Do it! Let Erik die, Christine! _Let me die_. I am dead on the outside, why can I not die? Why won't you let me? Isn't that what you wanted, Christine? You wanted to die! You wanted _me_ to die!"

"Don't say such things! That's horrible!"

"But it is the truth! What changed? Why are you here? _Why must you torment me?_ "

" _Torment you?_ " She repeated, confused and yet also angry, "Do you really _want_ me to go?"

"No! Please! Do not leave me! But do it! And let me die! I don't understand, Christine! Why are you here beside this corpse when all he has done is bring you suffering?" He had grabbed her shoulders and shook her – his eyes were wild and his voice was as loud as the thunder she recoiled from earlier.

"Stop! Stop it! How dare you! Get off!" She screeched and smacked him away, and with a groan he crumpled there on the bed, bringing his hands back to his face. She had not meant to scream or hit: only to be firm. He needed to listen. How could she make him listen? For fear he may only jerk away, she did not try to remove his hands but softly entreated, "Look at me, Erik."

"No! No, no, no! Your eyes: they burn, Christine."

"And so do yours, now let me see them. Look at me." With trepidation, he lowered his hands and met her astoundingly compassionate gaze, "Forgive me, my love." His heart thumped loudly in his chest – never had _she_ called _him_ 'my love.' Only a little bit ago he had been admiring the way she said his name, glad she did not call him anything else, but oh, to hear her call him my love again and again, he would die a happy man. She outstretched her fingers and lightly touched the top of his hand, glad when he did not dodge or cringe, "I was too harsh."

"I deserved it."

Her eyes were brimming with tears, "No, I just didn't know how to make you stop and listen: I panicked."

"That is because Erik is a wicked man, Christine! Wicked! Not even a man!"

"That's not true, Erik. You are a hundred men."

"Stop lying to me, I hate it when you lie!" She felt as if she had been jilted back to the beginning – hadn't they already discussed this? Hadn't she already told him she loved him, that she would never leave him, that she was not lying? She unearthed one mess-up and he felt worthy of death for it. _Oh,_ _Erik,_ she thought, _you are not such a bad man, you just have to keep trying! You can't give up as soon as you get caught with a mistake. Do you know nothing of grace or mercy?_

"Why don't you _listen_ to me for once!"

"I listen," he pouted, "I always listen."

"Then do it now." He silenced and she spoke sternly though not without a layer of sincere kindness and never breaking eye contact, "We have all done bad things, Erik, _all of us_. But that does not make us bad people nor does it mean that we are undeserving of love. That is the point of love, Erik: it is given freely, it doesn't matter if we are entitled to it. I will love you, whether or not you deserve to be loved." She had scooted closer to him and placed a gentle hand on his jaw – he closed his eyes, daring to lift his fingers to her own, "You have done bad things, but that does not mean you are a bad man, it means that you must continue to try to be a _better_ man. You have a temper, yes, and you are not... normal."

"I am broken; deformed; dead."

"You are not perfect; you are human like anybody else, but you are also passionate, considerate, caring, witty, wise, and a _genius_ among many other _outstanding_ things. And you are deformed," he wept, "but you are _not_ dead; you are _not_ a corpse."

"How can you say that?" Slipping her hand from underneath his and placing it atop, she began to guide his hand over his features.

"You lack a nose, your eye-sockets appear hollow, your skin is no more than a yellow, weak, thin layer tightly spread across protruding bones, these all come together to compose a very corpse-like picture, yes – but, Erik, _my_ _husband_ , have you ever realized that you have two! – may I repeat, _two_ , perfectly _ordinary_ ears? Corpses don't have ears, Erik."

"What?" He gasped, raising his head and rubbing those two aforementioned appendages, "Christine..." He whispered, "I have ears!" He moved quickly to her and she herself was shocked (and a little bit ashamed) when she shied away. She feared he would go back to anguishing, but instead he hushed her gently, bringing a finger to hover over his lips. At the sight of her relaxing, he came close again and pushed her hair out of the way so he could examine her own ears, "How is this possible, Christine?" It felt nice as his fingers tugged and traced... did he know it was as calming as it was? She began to feel the full weight of her exhaustion now.

"I would suppose you were born that way."

"Of course I was. Do you think they just sprouted in the last five minutes? No, Erik has always had them: two ears of his own. Corpses don't have ears." He echoed, sounding distant and thoughtful now.

"Erik..." His focus was redirected to her once again.

"Yes, my angel? My ears, as they say, are all yours." He chuckled at his own play on words, though there was an undercurrent of sadness she could not help but detect.

"I would rather _die_ than live without you, Erik: I love you," she brought her sleeve up to her eye, trying to catch the tears beginning to fall, "please believe me."

"Oh, Christine..." He sighed, taking her hand away and tenderly wiping her tears with his own cool fingers, "Erik will try, he will try for you. But he cannot promise. He only wants you to be happy. And so he will accept your benevolent forgiveness: but these tenderhearted, golden words of love and compassion, I can seldom understand them. These things are foreign to me, strange and... frightening, more so than the terror you hold in your heart for thunderstorms. But I want to believe them, even while at this moment I cannot. I _am_ unworthy of your love, even if you decide to bless me with it. But is that not love as you defined it? I do not deserve it, and yet I am gifted with it. I know you wish it were easier, Christine, I wish it was easier as well, that your husband was not such a difficult man... but he is." He moved his hands down her neck and over her shoulders in smooth motions, and she leaned against him, breathing in slowly and allowing him to soothe her. He made it well understood that it was his turn when that enchanting voice became softer, and every word was a silvery whisper in her ear. The encouragement was not so different from when he would praise her as the Angel of Music and it filled her with pure delight, "My poor, sweet Christine, you carry such a great burden on these little shoulders, a burden I would not wish on even my worst enemy. It is not fair to you... I will do better, Christine, I promise you. I will be a better man. Come, sleep now. Yes, that's it, darling, rest your tired head." He encouraged her to get underneath the covers, murmuring his spoken lullaby, giving her jaw and cheek and hairline featherlight touches. She assumed this must be what it's like to fall under a spell.

"Erik will hold you –" He began as he slipped in beside her (she had worried, if only for a small bit – for it was impossible to feel anything but calm when he spoke in such honeyed, dulcet tones – that he would leave her and could not repress her happiness at the knowledge he would stay), "– _if_ you should still like him to." He was not surprised when all she could do in reply was mumble incomprehensibly and tug weakly on his arm until his hand was once again trapped beneath her cheek. He could not keep the tendrils of worry from spreading in his mind, but they were smaller now. So he allowed himself to be close, coming near until her head rested below his chin and her back was pressed against his chest.

"Is this acceptable?" He could not stop himself from asking and was relieved to hear her hum of affirmation as she nuzzled her face against his large palm. And Erik dreamt that night: lovely, beautiful dreams... and oddly enough, about ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because did you know that the book says Erik has ears? And corpses don't have ears!


	22. My Deliverer

Christine woke up first, opening her eyes to complete darkness. At first she was horrified, her mouth widening in a scream until she realized it was because she had her face buried against the mattress and her pillow (as was not uncommon) and not because she had fallen into some sinister, dark abyss. She blinked several times as she lifted her head and was surprised to meet not a pillow but instead the expanse of Erik's chest. And then she remembered, thinking through all that had happened the day before – Raoul, the storm, the new house, reconciliation... or at least as much reconciliation as can be expected to be made in the dead of the night (well, early morning) when the reconcilers are half-asleep. But it was enough for her for now.

Her eyes adjusted to the brightness – and she could not stop the feeling of elation at realizing it was _sunlight_ that was filtering into her room _._ She longed to look around some more, but as she was about to sit up she found that her arms were clamped down rather tightly, and a long leg was set across her thigh, effectively pinning her in place. It was not a little bit uncomfortable, she was being, by all means, _crushed_ , but there was also something oddly nice about the sensation, and good to know if they _did_ , in fact, decide to share a bed. Would she wake every morning to Erik squeezing the life out of her? The thought both amused and partially worried her. She tried to break free but it served only to disturb her restrainer and make him extend his legs (in a way somewhat reminiscent to the first night she had ever witnessed him sleeping), momentarily freeing the lower half of her body before the same leg's ankle hooked itself to her calve. It was like having a bony icicle wrapped around the back of her leg and she acted accordingly – by squeaking loudly and squirming, which further resulted in him _shushing_.

"Quiet, Christine, Erik is trying to sleep."

"You really _are_ a block of ice, do you have any idea how cold you are?" It suddenly occurred to her that he may be offended by that statement, but she only felt him give a lazy shrug.

"It's not my fault that your body is unnaturally warm. Now hush, little furnace: time for sleep."

"Erik... I can't move."

"I am well aware."

"Could you... perhaps, loosen your grip a little?"

"Are you awake?"

"Yes, of course I am!"

"Do compose yourself, madame, I was only making certain." _Making certain?_ He scooted a bit away, letting his arm rest around her rather than hold her in place, "There; better?" She noticed that he did not, however, remove his freezing ankle, and a part of her was actually quite comforted by the small act of continued intimacy.

"Much, thank you," she answered, "How long have we been asleep?"

"I do not know, and frankly, I do not care." It had to be sometime in the afternoon, she figured – what with the natural light. She looked up at him, with his eyes closed and a truly _peaceful_ expression on his distorted features. She found herself smiling at the sight.

"How do you feel?" She asked.

"As if I have successfully snuck in through the Gates of Heaven itself." And wasn't that the truth? Erik was sure he had not slept so restfully in the entirety of his horrid life. Not one nightmare! Only dreams and repose of the sweetest kind. He had taken considerably longer than Christine to finally fall asleep, and the night had been fraught with some struggle and then eventual solution. It was only after her sleeping form and his own alert mind settled on a consensus regarding location and the amount of movement granted that he was able to drift off into the exquisite and untroubled slumber he delighted in that morning. He had been afraid to at first. There had been so many instances where he had gone to sleep and awoken screaming and thrashing that he was mortified by the possibility he could end up doing something so abominable while he lay next to his dearest, sleeping angel. He resolved to stay awake then, unwilling to leave her lest she somehow need him but unwilling to sleep lest he somehow harm her. It shouldn't have been a problem! He had stayed up for weeks at a time before and remained perfectly lucid. But what Erik hadn't counted on was how remarkably, unbelievably warm Christine was. You see, he wasn't just cold to the touch, he _was_ perpetually cold (he assumed it had something to do with his blood circulation or lack thereof). There was many a night in his dank, morbid coffin where he had retrieved multiple blankets to chase away the chill and it was more often than not a futile endeavor on his part (and it was no surprise he did not get much sleep).

So when Christine snuggled against his chest (having turned towards him earlier on), deliciously warm and soft, he hadn't expected how marvelously _cozy_ he would feel. He had _never_ felt cozy before; Erik knew what it was to burn and to freeze, but this lukewarm middle? This tepid, fluffy cloud he was suddenly lying on? Oh, he'd never been here before; it couldn't hurt to take just a few minutes of rest, could it? _No!_ he had commanded himself, _you must stay awake_. But she was so soft! Everything about her was gentle and pleasant. He'd observed perfect lips parted slightly as she exhaled quiet, slow breaths and found himself subconsciously synchronizing with the musical sounds. And her skin appeared as smooth and fair as gardenias and she smelled of them, too – a heavenly sweet, floral, and intoxicating scent: and her hair! Oh, her hair was silken to the touch. He had tentatively dared to stroke those magnificent waves of gold while she slept, marveling at the texture and sheen. And all of that, with the addition of the steady but therapeutic pitter-pattering of the rain against the roof and windowpane, induced a most calming effect – in fact, _the_ most calming effect Erik had ever had the supreme pleasure of experiencing. Amber eyes began to droop, only snapping open again when Christine cuddled closer, and then falling once more at the increased warmth. He tried to convince himself he was only resting his eyes for a moment. But it was to no avail, within the next few minutes, he had fallen fast asleep.

"Is that so?" His angel said, rubbing one of her eyes with the side of her hand and then blinking some more.

"Most assuredly." She couldn't help but notice that his lips weren't moving, which was a rather peculiar sight especially for one who had just woken up.

"Are you actually speaking, Erik? Or am I hearing things?"

"Apologies, my dear," He pulled his arm away and gave a light stretch, "I am speaking, only I am not using my mouth. Is it discomforting?"

"Oh! You're using your ventriloquism. No, it's fine." He chuckled, the sound felt so close she was half-tempted to rub her ear from the tickling feeling it left behind. He turned his head to her, and opened his mouth while he spoke.

"It is rude of me," he corrected, "and I shall not do so again while you are in such a disoriented state."

"You really said that, then? That you feel like you're in Heaven?"

"My Christine is beside me, is she not?" His fingertips grazed the side of her face and he searched her eyes for confirmation.

"She is." And she put her hand on top of his to prove it. He let out a contented sigh, moving his fingers until they found their way into her hair and enclosed around the nape of her neck. She was almost positive he was going to kiss her, but alas! She was wrong. And she was not sure whether she was more relieved or disappointed. No, he only caressed her jaw and cheek with his palm before taking her hand in his and setting it between them.

His eyes closed again (it was almost unbearably bright to him, he was not accustomed to waking up in the sunshine), and she assumed he was going back to sleep – which she didn't entirely mind, it only meant he was trusting her. Her gaze swept over him, taking in the vision of a pyjamaed, bed-headed Phantom of the Opera bathed in sunlight. He looked so restful – as if he really had found Paradise. And never had she been so close to his bare face in such a brightly lit room! Of course, the house below the Palais Garnier was always alight (Erik consistently strove to make sure she was as comfortable as could be), but it wasn't the same. As much as it _tried_ to imitate natural luminescence (and it made a relatively valiant effort), there was something about the light of the sun that was inimitable... she idly wondered about the last time this face had been seen in the sun. It was an easy thing to take for granted, she realized – being seen in the sun. He had been forcibly made to live his whole life hiding from it, behind a mask and then beneath the ground. There were some who had seen his face, she knew it – how else would the _corps de ballet_ have known about his grotesque appearance? But even then, he was no less _maskless_ , he was only wearing a more indiscernible accessory: a façade; semblance. It was only in the safety of his home and in the presence of his brave wife that he dared to be truly maskless; defenseless; vulnerable.

She recalled one day when he'd returned home and was rather impatient to begin a new composition he'd been inspired to devise during his outing. In his hastiness, he ended up forgetting to put his mask away and left it unattended on one of the side-tables. It was one of his more formal masks and she was fairly familiar with it (though it was not the one she had taken from him so long ago). It was completely white and molded quite perfectly to fit his face without giving away the utterly skeletal shape of his features. It alluded to fuller cheeks and lips, and naturally (or rather, _unnaturally_ in this case) it had a long (perhaps almost ridiculously so), pointed nose. The outside was made of porcelain while the inside was cushioned with a plush fabric she could register as what Erik had called pashmina. He'd gifted her a brilliantly embroidered shawl of the very same cloth (it was one of her favourites for its unbelievable softness). She assumed it was a mask he wore for more business-like (or Phantom-like) tasks. He had three more (that she knew of) that were similar to this one and four others that he wore for more casual, or alternatively, more theatrical situations (like that of the Masquerade). The one she had first seen him in was made of silk and ivory boning; it was black, smooth, and fashioned mostly for comfort – subsequently, it was the one he tended to wear most.

She lifted the mask, inspecting it carefully. Erik was busy at the piano: though he had not spirited himself away into his world of music before greeting her and informing her that dinner would be ready no later than the usual seven o'clock. However, he'd added, if she got hungry before then she should feel free to help herself to a small snack. Seven was therefore the presumed time that he would finally depart from his music and remember he had a wife that he'd spent less than three hours with that day. _At least he's still in the room with me_ , she conceded, and it wasn't uncommon for her to sit on the sofa and listen to him compose for hours at a time. He didn't have to be in the same room, he could very easily hide away in his own, and so she acknowledged that there was something extraordinarily sweet about the fact that even in his moments of possessed ingenuity he still seemed to desire simply being near her (hence why that one occurrence when he had suddenly up and deserted her had hurt so badly). He enjoyed conversing with her, but at times he preferred soundless company-keeping, to just know she was there and to have nothing more expected of him than to be present. Discussion could be just as difficult as it was elementary. He could spin any phrase into poetry (and in any language) but then extensive communication could prove to be, in short, exhausting or even frustrating. Christine well understood (in fact, she may even venture to say she knew _exactly_ how he felt) and respected those limits.

And so she did not bother him where he sat at the piano, only she took the mask with her as she moved to the couch, turning it over in her hands and staring at it transfixed. _To have lived your whole life behind a mask_ , she was thinking, her heart going out to her companion and husband. With a glance at Erik, noting that he seemed quite distracted, she stood again and as casually as she could, she stole away into her room and sat before her reflection at the vanity. _What is it like?_ She could not stop herself now, with one last peek out the door to make sure he was not disturbed by her disappearance, she tied the mask around her head. It did not fit correctly (she hadn't expected it to), but it covered the whole of her face and she could see clearly enough through the eye-holes. It certainly wasn't very comfortable, though the fabric was soft. Her heart hammered in her chest as she looked at herself in the mirror; it did not seem right, with her billowing golden hair, her charming lilac-coloured gown, and most of all, those pretty blue eyes shining through, and yet... it did not keep her from feeling suddenly cut off, distant, ethereal, and almost suffocated. _Was this how he felt?_ She wondered, touching the porcelain cheek. She got up then, going into her closet and retrieving a hat so she could stick her hair up into it.

_Better_ , she thought, turning her head this way and that. She struck a commanding pose – with her back straight, her fingers curled elegantly around her upper arms, and her eyes glaring into her masked-face in the mirror. It still looked a bit comical due to her small frame and the lightness of her apparel, but it didn't stop a series of complex emotions from erupting within her. She felt as equally formidable, in-control as she did detached, lost... and poignantly sad – a child! Only a child and since he had always worn something over his face. Masks like personae, such as the one she was mimicking now: the powerful, merciless spirit that haunted the halls of the Opéra de Paris. And Erik? Was Erik not just another mask? A character he had seemed to have woven meticulously and carefully? He was so much more than Erik, he _was_ the Ghost, the Genius, the Angel, the small child whose mother had never given him even one kiss. He was all of them, bundled up together and trapped in the mind of a lonely man. Her hands fell to her sides and she tilted her head, the picture before her looking steadily more eery and disconcerting. The mask appeared almost menacing and she did not like the way it had begun to sit so comfortably on her face. A frightening and apprehensive feeling settled in her stomach. She took off the hat first and put it away in the closet before returning to the bench before the mirror.

_What if I do not find my own face beneath?_ This was the insensible anxiety that taunted her now and she quickly began to realize that this had not been one of her better ideas. _Curse my nerves! I am being ridiculous!_ _Those sorts of things don't happen in real life; he's not under some spell, he's deformed_ , she reasoned. _But what if it's a contagious affliction? Passed only by wearing his mask!_ She was so busy dwelling in her childish consternation that she had not noticed the shadow that crept into her room.

He who had, in actuality, immediately noticed her departure and usually he would not have been _especially_ concerned (maybe disappointed, but concerned? Not too much) had it not been for the fact that he'd seen his mask depart with her. _What is she doing with it?_ He'd wondered and so he came to her open door, taking care not to be noticed or seen (he'd spent his whole life perfecting the skill). He'd caught a glimpse of her interesting little display – he was as entertained as he was bemused (torn between finding her the most adorable creature in the whole of creation and the most foolishly audacious). His Christine was so curious! She persistently longed to _know_ and was not unlike himself in that aspect. He was not an _in_ curious individual (most certainly not), he was just a much more _cautiously_ inquisitive mind. She was careless. She did not think of consequences. Erik _constantly_ thought of consequences – he had to know every path, every probability, every variable, every odd. Her thoughts may – _may –_ partially drift over a possibility but then they would become squashed in her desire to do whatever it was she longed to do; he knew what it was like to be tempted in giving into abandoned sense and to simply act on your impulses (her presence here was essentially proof of his failure to deny that temptation), but even with such overwhelming lures hanging above his head he was an extremely calculative man and never failed to pay close heed to whatever ramifications may occur from his chosen actions (and occasionally – meaning more often than he would like to admit – he would heed them but not obey them).

She had sought to know and now she was afraid because she had not taken the time to consider the consequences of knowing – the repercussions that would surface in her own reactions. She was spinning out of control. He could see it in her eyes, in her hesitancy to remove the mask – and though there was a part of him that undeniably thought she was suffering what she deserved (how dare she mock him!), he was more moved to pity for his wife. If he was in her shoes, he didn't doubt he would be equally as reluctant. She had watched him take off his mask at least 58 times now (it wasn't as if he was keeping count or anything), and she had only ever found a ghastly corpse behind them. Her vivid imagination (and she had a splendid one! It was partially why she was such an adept actress, and why she so feared the dark) was probably running wild now. Even _he_ began to wonder, to fret... and it was this worry that prompted his feet to move until he stood behind her and his hands to come up to the little bow she had tied. She froze when she saw his imposing figure looming above her (only his abdomen visible in the mirror) and felt his fingers brush against her scalp. He lifted the mask from her face, his other hand hovering just above her left shoulder but not quite touching. And she watched as her own familiar countenance was revealed before her and not any nightmarish image that resembled her husband's visage. She felt an immense pang of guilt.

"Erik," she started, and he let his wavering hand set on her shoulder, "when did –"

"Quiet," he said, though there was not a hint of animosity, "look at me." And she turned her head to meet his golden gaze and thought she saw something akin to relief in them. Wordlessly, he left with the mask, stowed it away, and then returned to his composition. It was only after he prepared dinner (no later than seven, as he had promised) and they sat together at the table that they spoke again.

"I'm sorry, Erik." she told him, "I shouldn't have taken your mask, I meant to put it away..."

"You were curious." He said rather matter-of-factly.

"Are you... are you angry with me?"

He looked at her carefully, "Do I have any reason to be angry?"

"Well, I... I touched one of your masks, didn't I? I probably shouldn't have."

"And I probably shouldn't have gone into your room without your permission."

"I... suppose not."

"Thereby, I humbly ask your forgiveness for that breach of your privacy." She was quiet for a moment, studying his every word – searching for a double meaning. At the prolonged silence, Erik prompted, "Christine?"

"But you were only helping me. I couldn't have... I was too..."

"Nevertheless, it was ungentlemanly of me and I apologize."

"I forgive you."

"If you can forgive me for that, then I can surely forgive you."

"You _aren't_ upset with me then?"

"Do you want Erik to be upset with you?"

"Of course not!"

"Then cease your worrying – besides, how could I be upset when you make such a charmingly formidable Opera Ghost? – despite your infinitesimally tiny form."

"Really?"

"You are a genuine Thumbelina, my dear."

"I meant the part about making a formidable Opera Ghost – and I am not _that_ short."

"Oh, I daresay, you'd fit in quite admirably amongst the pygmy peoples."

" _Erik._ "

"I am only glad that _you_ were not the Phantom and _I_ was not a member of the chorus."

"What?" She was utterly confused.

"Finish your dinner."

"But what did you mean about – "

"Christine, your meal will get cold and that will do you no good."

"But I –"

"Eat." She sighed, casting him a glare but then doing as she was told. When she finished she helped him clean the dishes – much to his annoyance, but she had made it routine now and he couldn't find it within himself to refuse her company even if it meant she was working. It was when she was finishing polishing some of the silver that she finally worked up the courage to talk again.

"Erik."

"Hm?"

"I'm sorry."

"You are not still apologizing for –"

"No, I only... I am sorry... that you must wear a mask; that you have to hide."

He did not respond.

"But I am glad you do not have to hide from me."

He looked at her then, an expression of astonished acknowledgement and pure adulation etched into his corpse's face, "As am I." He said, his voice a little strangled, but then he saw how she was handling one of the table knives and his eyes widened in a mixture of anger and panic, "Christine, you must be more careful!"

"It's only a butter knife, I'll be fine."

"Have you lost all sense? No, hand it over, I will finish here, you sit in the drawing room."

"You worry too much."

"I am vigilant, now obey your husband and give him the knife."

"Fine," she relinquished the cutlery, "but I'd rather stay here with you until you've finished. I missed you today." She hugged him from behind then, resting her head against his back and beaming as he stiffened and then relaxed in her embrace. And she could not see his face, but she was fairly certain his cheeks were burning a deep shade of red.

"Did you?" He muttered.

"Certainly! Don't you miss me while we're apart?"

"Inexplicably so. I treasure the time I spend with you above all else. There is no question in my mind that any moment in my life that has been comprised of any happiness at all has been a moment shared with you. I did not know happiness before you." He finished with the last bit of silverware.

"That is both so lovely and tragic of you to say."

"That is the beauty of life," He turned in her hold, "inexorably painful and yet congruently precious. We are all dealt our share of pain, Christine, it is a necessary part of living: what is happiness without sorrow to give it definition? – only I was shackled and chained to it. There was no reprieve, no amnesty – not even in music! That is, until you. You are my liberator," he caressed her cheek reverently, "my deliverer."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pashmina (n.): a type of fine cashmere wool (sometimes consisting of both cashmere and silk). The wool comes from the Changthangi or Pashmina goat, which is a special sort of breed indigenous to high altitudes of the Himalayas in India, Nepal, and Pakistan. The name comes from Pashmineh (پشمینه), Persian for "made from 'Pashm'" (meaning "wool" in Persian).
> 
> In my personal headcanon Christine is from 4'11" to 5'1" and Erik is 6'3" to 6'4" and basically I just enjoy thinking about all of the things he would say like the, "Why, Christine, you are a regular Thumbelina!" and the "I imagine you'd fit in quite well amongst the pygmy peoples." or, "Would you get that box of cereal on the top shelf for me? Oh wait. You can't." and imagine a few years into the future after J.M. Barrie publishes Peter Pan and Erik can't stop himself, "I should like to fly, I've been informed that all it takes is lovely wonderful thoughts and pixie dust and as we all know, Christine, you are, in fact, a pixie…"
> 
> Alternatively Christine's all, "Bonjour, Polyphemus, how are the sheep?" "Excuse me, I was told that you have in your possession a goose that lays golden eggs." "Oh, Gigantor! I know you're busy composing your magnum opus, but would you get that box of cereal on the top shelf for me, I seem to be ~too short~!" "Erik, you never did tell me the story of how you escaped Tartarus, go on and share!"


	23. The Wedding Night

Christine removed her hand from his, and he opened his eyes as he wondered if she was going to insist that they should get up now. He would agree, of course, they really ought to get up. But then he would also vehemently refuse to – this was _Paradise_ , he would much rather _die_ than leave it now. But he was sure she would rather want to go, that she would wish to shatter this perfect moment. And so he waited for her to disentangle herself from him, to say the words... but he found they did not come.

Instead, he witnessed that beautiful, little hand inching closer to him. His heart made a significant _thudding_ sound as her fingers came in contact with his skin and he tried to keep himself from flinching too greatly: no one had ever touched him with such gentleness. And yet here this marvelous woman was – so perfect in every way possible! – trailing fingers _willingly_ down his ravaged features. His eyelids fluttered closed again as he commanded himself to relax under her caress – feeling curious, interested, and enthralled in regards to what she may do. She ran fingertips over prominent cheekbones and hollow cheeks, marveling over the strange texture. He had such _thin_ skin that it almost gave the impression of being absent. But it was there, she knew: her own nails, guided by his treacherous hands, had torn that flesh once. The memory caused a chill to run down her spine and she tried her best to ignore it and focus only on the awe she felt for the man before her. She pushed back some of his unkempt hair, tucking it behind that same ear before allowing her fingers to span against his cheek until it covered a quarter of his face. She could make out every bone, every tendon, the muscle in his jaw tick as he grew in equal parts more nervous and more excited.

As she began to pull away there was a desperate whining noise and Erik was mortified to discover that it was _him_ making it. But then Christine's fingers returned to him, settling on his jaw and he forgot to be both anguished by her departure and embarrassed by his response. She grazed the underside, pausing at his sharp chin and then brushing across his lips (by that time he was trying to recollect exactly what it meant to breathe). She made a path down the side of his throat, amused when he bristled as she speculated that it was partially because he was probably trying to hold back an unbidden giggle. His torso had never been so exposed to her, his dressing gown loose and stopping as far as below his protruding collarbones. _Protruding, yes; but collarbones the same as any other man._ She chanced running a finger across them, her heart racing at the sound of his delighted sigh.

And as she traced the hollow of his throat, she took a moment to ponder the fact that this was the first time she had ever touched a man so intimately; she felt a little guilty, as if she shouldn't be drawing figures on his skin. But wasn't she married to him? _If this was a proper marriage_... but she stopped right there, unwilling to let her mind travel to those unknown and unfamiliar planes. It was a frightening thought that had nothing to do with Erik's appearance and everything to do with the fact that she didn't know how to go about such a thing.

Well, of course she had an _idea –_ she was uncertain not ignorant. She knew men and women were different, she had heard matters on the subject here and there amongst the other members of the opera house (but then she had never cared much for gossip and for who happened to be involved with who and thus what she heard was rarely fully acknowledged or speculated), and certainly, throughout her childhood Mamma Valerius had dutifully and graciously answered any question posed to her. But Christine had (rather uncharacteristically) never thought to be curious enough to ask her what exactly happened between a married man and woman (and Mme. Valerius was probably all too glad to not have to elaborate on the uncomfortable topic – especially with one such as Christine, who seemed to all but embody innocence).

And Christine had been alright with that – she did not feel any reason to know and assumed that it would be something she and her husband would eventually figure out together (and she still, for the most part, held onto that belief – but that didn't make it any less scary). Mme. Valerius, on the other hand, had not been as alright with the turn of events. For her adopted daughter revisited her and told her that she had married (and returned from her honeymoon), and the poor, old woman had actually imparted to her that she felt absolutely terrible about not better explaining to Christine everything that marriage entailed. She had asked her daughter so boldly yet exceptionally carefully if everything had gone alright – and Christine, with only the desire to assuage her mummy's worrisome thoughts, told her everything had been perfectly fine.

She didn't entirely lie. Their wedding night _had_ been perfectly fine (mostly): especially considering that it was the night of the day he let Raoul and M. Khan go. After Christine had chosen the scorpion and swore to Erik to be his Living Wife, he saved the two men from their watery graves. By that time it was midnight and though the fellows were dry, they were hardly healthy enough to be returned. In fact, the neither of them were _fully_ conscious until the next day. But Christine watched over the each of them as a guardian angel, making certain they would be unharmed, giving Erik looks of _warning_ when he moved too close to either of them.

"My dear Christine," he said, "You must stop looking upon me with such suspicion. I have saved them, have I not? I, myself, wrestled the two of their bodies to the surface." 'Wrestle' was an exaggeration – though it had taken longer to get to the Persian, Erik had swooped down below into the cellar and plucked them out as if they'd weighed nothing at all.

"I know, Erik, and I am grateful."

"And you will be my Living Wife."

"Yes, your Living Wife – so long as they are not harmed."

He tutted, "You must cease worrying for them. It would not do to worry over two men who are _not_ your husband; in fact, it would be very dangerous."

"You are not my husband either."

He glared at her and then relaxed, waving a hand about as he spoke, "Alas! What you say is the veritable truth, my dear. I am not your husband as of yet. But we are as good as engaged and such an arrangement warrants the very same amount of loyalty. You know that, don't you? You cannot turn on your promise now, Christine. I fear that would prove to be a hazard to _everyone's_ health." He glanced pointedly at Raoul's sleeping form.

"Erik! I will keep my promise!"

"And as surely as you keep yours, I shall keep mine." She sighed and looked over Raoul again to which Erik calmly but adamantly stated, "Stop worrying for them."

"They almost died! I would be worried if it were _anyone_ lying there and you know that."

He eyed her for a moment, analyzing her words and then coming to an unspoken conclusion. He nodded his head, "Yes, how lucky Erik is to be betrothed to such a sweet, compassionate thing. But no more, Christine, I implore you to take a moment's rest. This has been a very busy night, and I am sure you are feeling quite tired."

"No!" She was emphatic, "I do not need rest. I will wait until they awake."

"You will do no such thing!" She cringed at the sound of his voice, booming and iron-willed. But then Raoul stirred, his eyes opening in slits as he took in what he could of his surroundings.

"Christine..." he croaked, "where... where am I?" She was about to rush to his side, but Erik placed a single finger upon her shoulder – advising her to keep away and to not speak a word if she valued her Raoul's life.

"Christine!" Raoul repeated, his cracked voice growing a little louder.

"It would be best if you remained quiet, viscount, your throat has already endured quite a bit of damage – do not think I care, of course, it is only my little Christine I am concerned for, she grows distressed by your squawking." And Raoul blinked as he finally made out the two figures beside him. One stood tall and erect, masked and clothed in fine apparel and the other was beautiful – an angel! He almost believed he was in Heaven for her seraphic appearance. But then he remembered: Christine! The Ghost! That monster! Yes, it was the monster whom had spoken.

"Monster!" He subsequently christened him and the title was met with a terrifying chuckle.

"Yes, yes, but of course." The 'monster' crooned in a dangerous tone as he moved towards the sofa. He was abruptly stopped and Raoul spied two little hands curling around Erik's upper arm. The masked man froze, sharply inclining his head to look at the strange things attached to him and then lifting it to meet their owner's eyes.

They whispered something to one another Raoul could not understand, but whatever it may have been, it prompted Christine to release that foreboding figure. And then he was coming near again (though she followed close by, undeterred by the glower Erik shot).

"Don't you hurt her!" He meant it to sound brave, but it came out more like a wheeze and he was suddenly very aware of how sore and worn out he was. He heard a tsk as his eyesight weakened, everything becoming blurry and swinging back and forth. It felt almost as if he were sailing, tipping side to side; side to side. Usually he relished in that feeling. It only made him feel sick now.

"Christine," the Ghost said, "be quick and fetch a basin. I will not have him soiling my carpet." She dashed away quickly, eager to return lest he decide to go back on his word and kill Raoul then and there.

"You are lucky, viscount," he said, "if it were not for my fiancée, you would not be alive."

"Fiancée?" The younger man rasped.

"Yes!" He said with such unbridled glee, "We are due to be married _quite soon_." At this time, Christine returned with the basin (as well as a washcloth), "Ah, thank you, dearest. You are no longer needed – I would loathe for you to see such an ugly display."

"I'm staying."

"No, you are not."

"I wish to help him!"

"Oh ho! Really now? No, my dear, I am quite familiar with how you react to unsightly things and I lack the state of mind whereupon I can deal with incessant screaming. Obey me, or I will do just as you fear."

"Don't you dare, you monster!"

"Do not _test_ me, you insolent girl!" And amidst the arguing, the viscount found he could no longer hold back the contents of his stomach. Erik was swift, and very luckily got to the man before any of the vomit managed to get onto his floor, "Give me the washcloth." She was reluctant but at last relinquished it to his outstretched hand. He wiped at Raoul's mouth and shirt, and she was surprised by his care, "For the sake of your boy's health, do not argue with me and bring me a glass of water and another half-filled with cordial."

She did as she was told, moving with even more haste than before. Her poor Raoul! Poor, dear Raoul! Sick and suffering, all because of her! When she returned, the bowl Erik had used was gone and the viscount was moaning as he lay on the sofa. She brought the cups to Erik, who had been examining the daroga with minor interest.

"Ah, Christine, hand me the cordial and have the boy drink every drop of the water." She did not (to his visible displeasure) hesitate to do so. Taking the glass to the disoriented Raoul and trying to keep from gazing upon him with too much love.

"My brave sailor," she whispered to him so quietly, hoping Erik would not hear her (she was wrong, he was listening for something just like that, but he did not comment – rather, he ignored it, pretended it did not exist), "there you are." She looked back at her husband-to-be, observing him as he took out a small flask of dark liquid from his pocket with which he poured a select amount into the cordial.

"What is that?"

"It is a solution that will help the boy sleep. Only it is particularly nasty-tasting, hence the cordial."

"Sleep?"

"Yes, child; sleep."

"What sort of sleep?"

"The restful sort, I should hope. The sooner he sleeps, the sooner he leaves and never, ever returns."

"Is it poison, Erik? Do not lie to me."

"Are you my fiancée?"

"I turned the scorpion, is that not what that means?"

"It is. You may desist in your fretting, Christine, it is not poison." He came to the side of the couch where Raoul had begun to calm.

"How do I know you are telling the truth?"

"Shall I taste it first?"

"Yes!"

"How cruel of you! What if it _were_ poison? You would see me die?"

"If you will not drink it then _I_ will."

"What a romantic gesture! Yes, you shall taste it, and then you will believe that it is not poison! I would not willfully make myself a widower, you know." She accepted the glass, and Erik could not help but derive a certain amount of amusement from her mistrustful gaze. Warily, she brought it to her lips, sniffing it first and then taking a sip. She grimaced at the underlying bitter flavour ( _perhaps it is laudanum_ , she discerned), but registered no ill effects.

"Behold, I am a man of my word! Now return me the glass." She did, watching as he bent over to hold it to Raoul's mouth. But the boy would not drink it, sure that it was some sort of sinister bane.

"It's alright, Raoul, it will only help you sleep, you need your rest." At her words – and in lieu of his dazed state – he surrendered, wrinkling his nose at the unpleasant aftertaste. It did not take him long to fall out of consciousness.

"A dreamless sleep," Erik explained, "I expect it shall last until sometime tomorrow."

"Why is he so ill?"

"A number of reasons: his tantrum for one, the effects of syncope for another, but I suspect he is suffering most from the dehydration. But that should be of no matter to you, Christine. You would be wise to dispel all thoughts of him from now on. Do not look at him nor speak with or of him, understood?"

"Y–yes," she blinked, swaying a little on her feet, "Erik?"

"That would be the draught."

"But I hardly had any of it."

"It possesses a great potency."

"And you gave Raoul more than me! You _did_ poison him, you devil!"

"It is insulting how profoundly you doubt me. You are much smaller than your boy, therefore it affects you easier and quicker – he will be fine."

"But, I..." she began to teeter-totter to the side and Erik gently grabbed her shoulders to stabilize her.

"Here, my dear, come sit by the fire," he led her to sit at the fireside where he proceeded to drape a blanket over her that had previously rested at the foot of the bed, "I shall watch over while you sleep."

"Sleep?"

He hummed and clarified, " _Sleep_."

"But... the Persian... Raoul... they are not safe..."

"Do not speak the whelp's name any longer!" He heaved a great sigh, "They _shall_ remain safe, Christine, so long as you keep your promise. Rest your eyes now, and when you open them, we will be married – on a Sunday no less. Will that not be wondrous, dear? It will be, I promise you. Mm, close your eyes – _sleep_."

And he had meant it. As soon as she woke up, he presented her with a wedding gown and bid her to go into the restroom to change (and she did, as soon as she checked to see Raoul was still breathing – he was). It was a beautiful thing – a _real_ wedding dress. When she was little she had never imagined she would wear a real wedding dress, white and fair and beautiful. But there it was, and it fit her perfectly. When she came back, Erik did not waste time (though he had taken a very short moment to completely take her in, to fawn over the picturesque vision she made in that pristine gown). They got married that morning, came back in the early afternoon, tended to the two men for a time (wherein M. Khan had finally awoken and proved to be completely fine), and then Erik had left to (presumably) deposit them both back to the surface.

Afterwards, he had returned to her as timidly as a child. Knowing she was now his wife, that she was waiting for him in _their_ home. He was overcome with nerves. She'd never seen him so utterly lost and shy (not even on that first haunting day when she had learned that her Angel was no more than a man), tiptoeing to her as if the floor beneath him might open up and swallow him whole at any given moment. And she waited until he finally made the distance, his eyes searching hers from behind his mask as if she held the very key of life and death in her little hands. At one point in the last couple of days, she actually had.

"Christine..." He whispered, and then as if it was the earth's gravity pulling him down and not his own chosen movements, he leant towards her. She remembered lifting her head, if only a little – _I promised_ , she reminded herself, _I promised_ _._ The kiss was so light, so unbelievably soft, she had hardly registered its existence and yet she knew he must've! – for he fell to her feet and began convulsing with sobs and apologies and pleas. What was she to do? This monster; this poor, wretched man; her _husband_ , weeping at her feet all because she had granted him a kiss upon her head.

"Oh, Erik," she had said, brought to her knees by a wave of overwhelming pity. He gasped, torn between the desire to draw either closer to her or further away.

"What," he started, "what are you..." And then she began to remove his mask and his eyes widened, his heart raced, his palms sweat in their leather-encasements. But he could not stop her, could not even find it within himself to be angry with her, he could only kneel and tremble before her.

"Do not cry any longer," she told him, setting his mask beside the both of them.

She did not flinch, she did not scream, she did not run. No, his dear wife simply sat there, meeting his eyes so bravely; so kindly. And there were tears! Tears streaming from those beautiful blue eyes! Tears! Tears for _him_? No! It could not be! And yet... but then she was coming closer... and before he knew it there were warm lips pressed against his bare and horrid face. His vision swam, he thought for sure he would die! He had never had anything so precious, anything so glorious in all of his life. How he had treasured kissing her perfect face, how thankful he was that she had let him – but _this_! This! How could she? It was beyond all sense!

There was a soft patter as the ring he had held in his hand fell to the floor. He had been planning to give it back to her! But then he had seen her. Standing before him – alive, breathing! His wife! His _Living Wife_! And his resolve broke. Christine caught eye of the familiar piece of jewelery, lifting her eyes to him again in questioning. But he was still recuperating – stammering helplessly.

"Christine!" He wept, "I... I do not understand... why... why... I... I should..."

But he was distracted as she reached forward, taking the small, glittering object in her hand before inspecting it. This was her Wedding Ring, she realized – the Wedding Ring he had given to her so long ago, the Wedding Ring that she had lost, the Wedding Ring he had not yet replaced upon her finger. It was a plain gold circlet: nothing exceptionally grand. And yet it was so heavy in the middle of her palm, as if it was weighed down by a thousand jewels.

"You have truly kept your promise," she told him at last. And he was mesmerized as she _slipped the ring onto her little finger_ , twisting it until she thought it comfortable, "and I _will_ keep mine," she continued, "I will be your Living Wife, Erik."

"My... Living Wife..." He murmured, glancing intermittently between her hand and her eyes, "Christine, oh Christine! Are these your own words? Do you mean what you say to your poor Erik? Or is he imagining things? Is this all in Erik's mind? Is this some heavenly dream?"

"No, it's not a dream," _it is a nightmare_ , the thought sounded in her mind before she had time to reign it back, "I have taken my vows and now I wear your ring: I am your wife before God and law."

"My ring... you wear my ring. We are wed now, Christine. Did you know? And you will be my Living Wife. My... my Living Wife?"

"Yes." She answered solemnly and he ran a hand over his face, realizing then that he was without a mask.

"Oh, how rude of me! To have taken my mask off in your divine presence, I promise it shall never happen again." He grabbed for it, quickly refitting it to his face before standing.

"But Erik, you did not –"

"Hush, my dear," his tone was tender but resolute, "Erik is going to play you our Wedding Mass. Listen, my sweet wife, listen." And so she did, not moving from her position on the floor as she allowed the music to wash over her. It was grandiose, terrifyingly wondrous; it was confusing in the tale it told, so blissful and yet there was an undeniable undertone of irrevocable heartbreak and _caution_. He was telling their story – this warped rendering of Beauty and the Beast. She knew the fairytale, of course, she recognized the parallels. But her Beast... her Beast had not transformed when she had agreed to marry nor when she had kissed him. Perhaps it was because she did not love him and only true love could break the curse?

 _How shall I endure this life?_ _Trapped in this Kingdom of Darkness ruled by Death himself?_

But he made such breathtaking music and she listened to it – listened and listened until she began to fall asleep. He noticed her drooping eyes as he stole a glance at her and at first he felt spurned by the sight of her napping to their _Wedding Mass_! But then he recalled the kisses, her tears! Her tears for him! _I should let her go. Release the boy and let her have him._ _But how?_ He demanded, _she is already married to you! She cannot leave with the little chap if she is_ married _! That would be scandalous! Oh, and look at her, look... oh, so perfect, and she has_ promised _! Precious, dear girl!_ _She wears_ Erik's ring _upon her lovely finger and she has_ promised _to stay with him!_

"Christine," he called, rising from the bench and coming to her again. She looked up at him, her bright eyes glazed over with sleep and the influence of the music. _Poor angel_ , he thought, offering his hand _, poo_ _r, darling angel. My Persephone, bound to Hades. You, who have eaten the fruit of the Underworld. Forgive your husband, foolish and mad as he is. He cannot let you go now. Not yet. A day, let him own a day as the Lord of the Underworld possesses a hundred and eighty._ But like so many other promises, he would fail to keep this one as well.

"Up," he commanded and she did as she was told, taking his gloved hand and getting up off the floor, "It is not ladylike to lay upon the floor, you know." He removed his hand the moment she arose and watched her as she nodded – so listless and... _lifeless. She is only tired, Erik. You know how she is when she is tired._

"I am so sorry!" She exclaimed in a soft, wistful tone as she grew more mindful, "You were playing our Wedding Mass, and here I was, sleeping away as if it was nothing."

"Do not worry a whit over it: you are merely exhausted and understandably so. It has been an exciting day, hm? Yes, I've thought so as well. Go on to bed, my weary little wife, and get some rest."

"But the Wedding Mass..."

"I shall play it again on the morrow _after_ you have slept." She nodded again, following the instruction he made to go to bed. And then she was suddenly aware of everything; her breathing, the weight of her gown, the closeness of the walls before her and the ceiling above her – she felt suffocated, terrified, claustrophobic. She glanced behind her to see if he was following, fear and anxiety curling throughout her body. But he was not! Thank God, he was not! What would she have done had he begun to follow her? If he had wanted her to prove that she would be his Living Wife in all ways? She did not dare tempt fate and ask, but could not help herself from contemplating on how he hadn't even moved from the spot she'd left him in. He was gazing upon the place where she had just been standing – gazing as if his very life depended on it. It frightened her; it concerned her.

"Erik?" His head snapped up, "Are you... alright?" He was observing her with a paralyzing intensity, that penetrating stare lingering most specifically at her hands as she messed absentmindedly with the golden promise that resided on the left one. At last, he spoke.

"How easily worried my wife is... do not worry for me, Christine," he tilted his head, silent again before uttering a curt, "Goodnight." And before she could return the sentiment he was scurrying away, walking as fast as his long legs could carry him until he disappeared into his room.

For all of the things that could have happened that night she counted it as perfectly fine... or, at least, fine enough. The next couple of weeks were not so terrible either – she had convinced him not to wear his masks, that she was his wife and so did not fear his face. He wanted to believe: so did she.

No, it had been the following month and a half that was not so unlike the nightmare she had thoughtlessly dubbed her marriage that first day. Filled with a living death that was not in the form of her husband's disfigurement but in that of her unrelenting despondency and his deranged, broken response to it. Erik had done almost everything other than freeing her to try to make her happy. He would give her lavish gifts, he would play her beautiful music, he would make her favourite dishes, he had even offered to take her outside. But she was determined to punish him. And he knew it and it broke him. He would resort to threats, locking her in her room – she had struggled against it the first few days: and that was all he had wanted – life, just _some life_. But then eventually she learned to do nothing. And he would open her door and come into her room and fall to his knees and cry over her feet – he would _beg_.

"Erik will take you outside, Christine. Would you like that? Would you live for that? Please, Christine! He will take you outside if you will only live! I can bear it no longer! Why won't you live?"

 _Because I am not free!_ But she could not ask to be free for she had made a promise and she did not want to go outside for she could never be free. She did not want a taste of liberation, only for it to turn to ash in her mouth. So Christine shook her head and he wailed and he left her there. But she could hear him elsewhere in the house: shouting, throwing things, making them shatter, playing dreadful music that threatened to both steal and crush her soul. He could not let her go! Not even in this state, no, he could never! He needed her, he could not _live_ without her.

 _But what is life worth if she is dead?_ He thought about killing the both of them (sometimes it seemed like that was what she wanted! But he did not understand. Had she wanted to die, she should have just turned the Grasshopper! _Perhaps it is woman's fickleness_ , he mused): alternatively, he thought about freeing the boy and her together (yes, this was what she really wanted, to _live_ with the _handsome, young viscount_ , not _him_. She would only ever be dead for him – but was she not at least present? That was enough, he would tell himself, that was all he needed).

It always came back to his dreams... his hopes. He was a foolish dreamer: an idealist. All he could think was that it wasn't supposed to be like this: that it wasn't fair. Why could he not live an ordinary life as an ordinary man with an ordinary, happy marriage? Why was he forced to live a dismal, mad existence?

They had both had to learn to make do with their circumstances. She was the stronger, she knew it for certain now. Had she done nothing, it would have continued to fall apart. Perhaps Erik might have let her go: but at the cost of his life and very possibly her sanity. What would she have done had she been freed after those first months? Could she have really been happy? Even with Raoul? No, she did not think that impossible. She loved Raoul and he loved her back. They might have recovered; might have found a way to live peacefully and gladly. But they had all endured so much... yes, it was not fair that she had had to string it all back together, that she had had to give up her right to hate her jailer. But she had promised – and Christine was a woman of her word.

It was getting so much better now – even with this momentary setback: _he_ was getting better... wasn't he? Yes, he had to be. She surveyed his expression, noting how still he was: it was as if he had a bird perched on his shoulder and feared that if he moved he might frighten it away. It might have sometime long ago... but now? _The bird will stay, Erik,_ she assured him in her mind, _she will stay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an extremely fun chapter for me really (I got to incorporate so much from the book, woohoo)! I'm sort of going off of ch. 26 from The Phantom of the Opera, where Khan wakes up and Erik is referring to Christine as his wife (I don't actually think they've gotten married by that point in the novel - as Erik does a similar thing earlier when he calls himself her husband - but for this story's sake, we're going to play on that, teehee). The scorpion-grasshopper ultimatum is dealt with late in the evening (Christine decides at 11 o'clock if you can recall) probably sometime in late March (we shall say March 22nd at the earliest and probably most accurate - I'm basing this story in the time period of 1884 [[here is a better explaining of the timeline - the second variation]](http://fdelopera.tumblr.com/phantom-chronology), so March 22nd would be the fourth Saturday), I will assume that Erik saves Raoul and Khan within the hour, dries them up as best as he can, and settles them in the Louis-Philippe room.
> 
> Erik and Christine get married in the morning (Madeleine Church would be preferable for both its grandeur and nearness, unfortunately it presents a problem in regards to people seeing as it would now be Sunday, March 23rd - therefore, Erik whisks Christine away to a much smaller, obscure church on the outskirts of Paris). At the church, the ceremony is performed as quickly as can be. It wouldn't be too outlandish for Erik to not have used the ring in the ceremony (especially considering the lack of formality and the general hastiness) - often husbands would give their wives their rings after the wedding (on their way home/when they got home/whenever most convenient). I will surmise that either Erik forgot to give her the ring amidst all of the rush or deliberately planned to return it only after ridding them of their 'guests' and establishing privacy. They return in the early afternoon, this is when the Persian awakens and has that little discussion with Erik. Later that evening, Erik gets Khan (who wakes up the next day in his own bed, tended to by his servant Darius) and Raoul (who wakes up, ahem, in the DUNGEONS) out of his home and then returns to Christine.
> 
> I suppose this continuity is not as faultless as could be, but for my story, it is what works.


	24. Bisque for Last

"Bony." She remarked quietly; he made a noise in agreement, the sound reverberating in his throat and tickling the pads of her fingers. She studied the area surrounding his collarbones – it was as deathly pale as his hands and face and it seemed to lack any trace of hair. Her father had had a hairy chest and occasionally a bearded chin – she had often liked to tug on his whiskers when she was little. Erik was very different from her father in appearance (aside from the most obvious); her father had been shorter (though he would always appear like a giant in her childhood memories), not thickset but broad; his hair had been thick and (in his youth) ginger, his eyes a twinkling blue that were set in a round, friendly face. He had an earnest, genuine smile, with a mustache above his upper lip. He oozed kindness and welcoming – sincerity, he was always so sincere. He never intimidated, he only ever loved. Even during the worst of times, he was only ever kind to those around him. Once, they had almost been robbed at one of the fairs they worked at; it had been the end of the day and they were distracted with packing up when a desperate vagrant had found his way to the case where they kept all of the money they earned throughout the long hours of the afternoon. Her father found him before he could get away, whirling him around by the shoulder.

"I wasn't stealing! Don't hurt me!" The man yelled, holding his hands up in front of him in reflex as he prepared for the inevitable blow that would follow. But then the hand on his shoulder fell away and as he peered through his trembling fingers, he saw his unwitting victim standing before him and looking on him without a trace of hostility, "I – I wasn't stealing." He repeated out of some necessity. And the man furrowed his particularly bushy eyebrows, those sky-coloured eyes meeting his with a soft expression – sad, gentle eyes. What was he seeing with those eyes? A man with gaunt cheeks, famished; emaciated and shuddering in anticipation of the ever-approaching evening chill. He dreaded the night and his dread was easily discernible in his dead, grey eyes.

"Are you hungry?" The words were sharper than any strike across the cheek, but his resolve was weak and so was his stomach. And now he was sitting beside one of the open fires at the emptying fair, a loaf of bread in one hand and a cup of warmed brännvin in the other. The man watched him with amusement as he scarfed down his meal.

"Slow down," he told him, "you'll make yourself sick." Like a child to his father, he nodded his agreement, wiping his nose with his shirtsleeve and eating slower, "Where are you from?"

"Jönköping," he said between bites.

"That's not far from Ljungby, isn't it?" Another nod, "My daughter and I are on our way to that very place." He had seen the girl before, a tiny thing with a crystal-like voice. She could be no more than twelve or thirteen, "Where are you headed?"

"Away."

"Just away?"

Growing steadily uncomfortable, the man stood, glancing between the father and his daughter, she was watching the whole situation with unabashed curiosity, "Listen, I'm grateful for your hospitality, but I really should be going."

"Do you need money?"

"I – no. What – what do you mean?" Their voices were hushed in the stillness of the night.

"I mean: do you need money?"

"I... I'm fine."

"Then why were you stealing from me?" No animosity; only a wish to understand.

"No! I wasn't stealing! I..." At the raised eyebrow, he slumped, shame weighing him down in a way he hadn't let it in awhile, "I... yes, I... I need money." Christine's Papa opened the case he'd set on his lap, collecting a fair amount of what they had earned that day and offering it to the quivering thief.

"I couldn't!" He cried, "I couldn't possibly!" But the man was helpless as the notes were all but shoved into his hands.

"But – but why?" He continued, "Why would you? I... I don't deserve it."

"You need it."

"But so do you! So does your daughter! Look! She's shivering. This is enough for a new coat! Why don't you take the money back and get that for her instead?"

"You are right, my daughter is cold. Christine," he called to her where she sat absorbed in the scenario before her.

"Yes, Papa?" He removed his overcoat, bracing himself against the sudden rush of cold before handing it to his daughter, "Here you are, little one. We do not have much, I admit," he turned back to the stranger "– that is why we are here: but my daughter... she is well-provided for. I make certain of it. The money could pay for a new coat, yes, but I imagine it would also be enough for a new pair of shoes." The older man looked pointedly at the toes sticking out of the worn boots the poorer wore. An ashamed flush spread across his face.

"But... why? You don't even know my name. I'm just some crook that tried to steal from you! You should be handing me over to an officer not willfully giving me your money!"

"I do not need to know your name to know you are my brother and in need – but if you should like to tell me, I would be more than happy to know."

"Alf. My name... is Alf."

"Take the money, Alf, and may God be with you." And that was enough to break the man. He accepted what he would've remorselessly stolen just a bit ago and thanked the angel before him until his pride could bear it no more. After Christine and her father were left to go back to the inn they were currently residing at, she could not help but ask why he had done what he did – why he had helped him.

"I believe God gave that man to us today to show him grace. I do not condone what he did but I also will not deny that he needed us, Christine. Who knows how his life will be altered for our courtesy? The world may view him as nothing other than the scum of the earth, but to me, he is no less my brother. _Truly I tell_ _you_ ," he began to quote, _"whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine_ – "

" _You did for me._ " She finished. And he chuckled, pulling her in for a half-hug with a proud, 'that's my little girl.' Christine remembered his laughter, it was always warming – though after... her mother, it was not as common. When her mother lived, he would laugh in absolute abandon, all of his pleasure seeping through and making itself known. It was contagious, addictive laughter.

Yes, there was much that was different between Erik and her father (save for both of their abilities to play the violin masterfully). But then... Erik's laughter – his real laughter, when he felt true happiness – reminded her of her old Papa. She had been blessed with that laughter quite a few times – when they went on walks, when they teased, when they played silly games. He liked the games, as much as he might have claimed otherwise. Her Erik had a fun streak in him, it was simply that he wasn't used to playing benevolently with other people. Performances were his forte! Friendly competition that had no other purpose than allowing someone to spend time with someone else? That was odd – foreign. But she was determined to get him used to it. She loved friendly competition – she loved games. And for as long as they both would live, she'd make him play one or two at least every week. One of the favourites that she had shown him was a variation of the well-known circle game in which one must refrain from smiling.

It had been a quiet and homey day, neither of them had left for anything and the routine was going along as per usual. They had just finished lessons: there was a fairly new _opéra comique_ by one Léo Delibes known as __Lakmé_ , _and Erik thought it would be most fitting if Christine learned to play the role of the tragic heroine. He knew her weaknesses and strengths – he had been her tutor for almost a year after all – and knew she easily took to comedy above all else. Her timing? – exemplary, her enthusiasm for the parts? – undeniable, her adorableness? – matchless, charming, _maddeningly_ endearing! But tragedy? – it was something she had struggled with from the beginning of her tutelage to her education now (though much less, assuredly and thankfully). It wasn't that she _couldn't_ do it, she was a remarkable actress and within her beat the heart of a courageous tragedienne, one who could hold the entirety of the world in her hand with her feeling; her candor; her sorrow! – but she would not dare to fully embrace despair in all of its dark poignancy. He understood, of course. He understood Christine, he knew her well. She feared being consumed – of it taking hold of her and never letting go.

There had been but few precious moments when she had permitted it, when she had allowed it to burn in her veins as she might let joy! For joy, he had told her, was interminably intertwined with sorrow: they were sides of the same coin that ultimately made up _life_. He was far better acquainted with sorrow than joy, never having known the latter until he met Christine. Therefore, naturally, he was more comfortable with sorrow. It was a heavy weight, but over the years he had grown used to the cracking pressure; the unrelenting pain. But then he _did_ meet Christine. And now sorrow, though most familiar to him, was fatal without joy. Oh, joy! What sweet, blessed pardoning was joy! He had drunk of it impetuously, undaunted and desperate: for he had been a man lost to the burning sands of agony since the moment he'd entered this cruel world. But it _was_ overwhelming! He remembered that devastating first taste, how it had completely knocked him out of his wits! He was still... still coming to grips with it (perhaps he always would be). But while he feared it, he had not hesitated to take it to heart.

Christine was antithetical: it was doubtless she knew sorrow (was he not Sorrow in the _flesh_? – and as sure as he was Sorrow, she was Joy), but it terrified her. Those feelings so powerful and uncontrollable, the rapturous heartbreak; the potent loss; the ineffable desolation! Yet, he was certain, he absolutely _knew_ that once she welcomed it, seized it, made it her song! – she would overcome nations! She would best every other member that had ever dared to enter her field; and that was one of the many reasons behind his insistence she perfect Lakmé and numerous others like her (he found it ironic that even while Christine hesitated to embrace the role, she herself was, in actuality, the very pinnacle of such a tragic heroine – it was no wonder she was such an inspiration to him: Joy and Perfection incarnate enveloped in exquisite tragedy – the quintessential muse, the only muse).

_Her field._

The one he was keeping her from. How it wounded when that knowledge occurred to him! But he was not ready for her to be so completely immersed in the world once more – she would eventually return, he vowed it. A voice like hers was not one to be kept underground for all of eternity: no, it's _destiny_ was to be heard by every unworthy being alive that they may have a taste of true Heaven. She had worked so hard; _he_ had worked so hard! He would not let it be thrown all away – _especially_ not on his account! Unless, of course, she sincerely did not wish to go back to the opera. He would obey her wishes (not that he had much choice, as said before and as shall be said again: he could deny her nothing). Yet, even if that were the sorry case, there was still the very eminent possibility her voice would know fame. For he had been taking much time to perfect a certain invention of his own – equipment that would allow one to record the human voice – that he might record her. And perhaps, someday, all would be able to hear the angel that had once blessed earth with her beatific presence.

Nevertheless, for all of the great practice it was for her to hone her skills in regards to tragedy, it was tiring business – exhaustive and heavy. She needed to do something uplifting afterwards and Erik would indulge her. Sometimes she wanted to dance or bake or listen to him read a marvelously happy tale, and other times... she liked to play games. Childish, fanciful games. He both relished and dreaded every second. She wanted him to know what it was like to have fun and as much as he was convinced he would never understand, he adored her determination and enjoyed getting to spend time with her. This time, she wanted some odd form of Throwing the Smile. He'd both seen and read up on various games – and (if given the chance, of course) he could probably play the lot of them to perfection (as long as they involved skill). Throwing the Smile was generally a game with a group composed of a larger number than two (but he supposed that as long as there was more than one individual it could be playable) and it involved attempting – without touch – to get one's... _opponent?_ to smile.

 _Why_ Christine would _ever_ want to play a game where she had to get _him_ to smile was beyond him! Only God knows what sort of ghastly vision he was when he did such a deplorable thing. Well, alright, that was figurative. He had seen his teeth before and surmised Christine had to have witnessed some utterly idiotic grin after giving him a hug or some other sort of priceless affection he was undeserving of. The poor girl! Subjected to his grins!

Little did Erik know that they actually weren't all that bad, especially considering that he took such good care of his teeth. He was missing three (it was a miracle he wasn't missing all of them for countless reasons, for example: one) he was old, two) he'd been punched in the face enough times for all of them to have gone flying out, and three) well, that just would've been his luck, wouldn't it? Corpselike _and_ toothless), fortunately two of those were in the very far back, but as equally _regrettably_ , one neared further to the front – he had false teeth for each of these.

Despite their falsity, they appeared seamless beside the rest of his "pearly whites" – which, truthfully, wasn't that much of an exaggeration. Erik was a very, very, _very_ ugly fellow and he knew it, but wherever he might be able to improve upon his appearance, he did: his clothes, his hair, his masks, etc! Thus, his teeth were nearly immaculate and Christine was in awe of them. Her teeth were alright: she had all of them, they were straight, and they weren't yellowed or anything like that, but they weren't so... _perfect_! He had a soft smile that could be quite pleasant; a gentler smirk that could be deemed as charming; but his grin! He had a grin that possessed the capability of being _dazzling_ (but only if he wasn't trying, she'd once asked him to _try_ to smile wide for her and it was the most disastrous and yet hilarious thing she had ever seen – her reaction resulted in him grimacing... well, perhaps, _pouting_ is a more apt description – and in her increasingly uncontrollable snickering).

Regardless of his hesitancy, she was intent on playing this one-on-one battle of the grins. This particular version wasn't one that he'd read up on, but he didn't worry all that much about it. In the original, the individual who was 'it' would have to go about a circle of players and try to get them to smile by either smiling themselves or frowning comically ( _Hah!_ he had thought to himself, _she stands no chance! Considering that my frowns are so delightfully amusing to her!_ ). But he assumed what really did the trick was probably the prolonged eye-contact – it was, to be frank, an _awkward_ if not a _distressing_ situation to have to stare relentlessly into someone else's eyes, and a human's natural response to such feelings is to cope with them. Laughing, smiling, chuckling nervously: these were all coping mechanisms and Erik wasn't prone to any of them. In general, smiling didn't come to him congenitally – he wasn't quick to do it and neither did he want to be. He expected this would come in handy when it came down to Christine trying to get him to give but one upper quirk of the lips.

But that was before he knew the extra bits – the _unknown_ rules, where her game _diverged_ from the original. _Foolish, foolish man!_ He'd berated himself. It would be the greatest test of wills he had ever faced in the whole of his life. Christine's twisted, evil, sadistic version of the circle game involved _words_. And at first, he was fine with that – even pleased about it! Words could prove to be advantageous for himself. And then he _learned_ how the words are used. But he couldn't back out now! He agreed to play! And now Christine had him sitting with her on the _floor_ , making faces both strange and bizarre as she prepared for the challenge ahead. Maybe all hope wasn't lost: Christine smiled easily, it was something that _did_ come to her congenitally, it was as easy (and he'd venture to say as important) as breathing to her.

"Alright," she'd said, "Are you ready?"

"Christine, you are about to endeavor to force _I_ , the arguably most sullen creature to have ever been permitted to breathe, to unwillingly smile – I do believe you should be more concerned about whether or not _you_ are ready." Simply because he was worried didn't mean he had to _show_ her that. In any case, the illusion gave him a confidence boost.

"I suppose I am as ready as I will ever be."

"Likewise."

"Do you want to go or should I?"

"By all means," his hand gave a flourish, "ladies first."

And then she scooted closer, _much_ closer, not touching – no, certainly not touching, that was against the rules. She began.

"Honey..." Her eyelashes fluttered and she smiled demurely. Then came the rest, "do you love me?" He was ready to clutch his heart and keel over. How to answer without the slightest hint of joy? How to find the words to answer at _all_?

His fingers twitched as he spoke, hoping that she wouldn't catch the waver in his voice, "Honey..." he paused, "must it be 'honey'?" It wasn't that it was such a terrible thing to have to say, only it seemed to lack a reverence that equaled dear or dearest or darling – it was much more in league with the most sickening of monickers: for _honey_ became _honeybunch_ _, honeybuns,_ and moreover – Lord in Heaven forbid it – honey _bunny_. He'd heard more than one couple go about calling each other such things and as greatly as Erik did desire some semblance of an ordinary marriage... _that_ was taking it a bit far. By chandelier and baluster, he would curse the day he ever became anything as ignominious as _honeybunny_ or _cuddlywuddly_ or _pookie-bear_! He felt bile rise at the very thought.

"Yes," she answered immediately, "now stop breaking the rules, you are only allowed to say that one line."

He sighed, " _Honey_ ," oh, she giggled! _Yes,_ _Erik,_ he told himself, _grasp onto that blessed annoyance! Bend it to your will!_ He wondered how she would ever survive when it was actually her turn to resist, "I love you, but I simply cannot smile." _Hah!_ _I am victorious!_ But then he remet those blue eyes of hers, they shattered his triumph – they seemed to tsk at him, to say: _witless fool, you have met your end_.

" _Honey_ ," she repeated, that smile widening, "do you _love_ me?"

 _Think of nothing even remotely to do with the positively gorgeous woman batting her lovely lashes at you, you must deny her, Erik – you_ must _!_

"Honey," he replied, "I love you, but I simply cannot smile." _One more try, my dear, and then it's_ all _over!_ He was suddenly feeling much more sure of himself.

"Honey," she started for the last time. What happened next, Erik hadn't anticipated. Christine opened her mouth but it was not Christine who addressed him. Or at least, it was Christine, but her voice was uncharacteristically and humorously low, " _do you love me?_ " It had caught him off guard! How was he supposed to respond to _that_? It wasn't so much that he was about to burst out laughing, simply that it had been _bewildering_! He raised the both of his nonexistent eyebrows and began to respond when Christine started cackling into oblivion. Apparently, her own little trick had been too entertaining to herself and now she was all but lost in a world of mad giggles!

"I'm sorry!" She breathed, "The look on your face! My voice! Erik!" Then she started laughing again. And before he could stop himself, the sight of her clutching her sides and grinning so bright that she radiated nothing but pure loveliness brought an unsolicited smile to his face. He couldn't hold it back fast enough! But she was so beautiful! So extraordinarily _stunning_! And then she was pointing at him, trying to form words.

"You are _smiling_!" She sang to him, and the proud tone in her voice warmed his heart enough that he didn't mind having lost the battle. _Ah, yes, the battle indeed: but the war, as they say, is not over!_

"Do try not to be harsh on yourself, Erik, no one can resist my charms!" _Is that not the gospel truth_ , he thought.

"Well, if you are _quite_ finished with your boasting, I advise you try to regain some ounce of control before endeavoring to avoid erupting into a new set of frenzied giggles."

"You're right," she said, making those weird faces once more, "I think I can now... _wait_ , no." He lifted an absent eyebrow, "That's not helping!"

"At this rate, I will not even have to say a word."

"Do not underestimate me, monsieur! I have powers beyond your imagination!"

"Oh, I do not doubt that."

"Powers that will grant me the ability to defy you and your comic advances!"

"Hm, I am less convinced."

"Silence, I need a moment to compose..."

"Ah, now I am _curious_ : what precisely are you composing, Christine? Concerto, sonata, an opera perhaps?"

" _Erik_!" He smirked, she stuck her tongue out at him.

"Yes, yes – _compose_ thyself, my good lady. Only you might want to hurry as dinner will be ready very soon."

"Another moment," she said. A few more minutes passed of her squaring her jaw and opening her mouth wide and sucking her cheeks in like some sort of deranged fish, until at last she put her hands in her lap and nodded.

"I am prepared."

It was his turn. And she was waiting expectantly; a bland, emotionless look plastered onto her pretty features. It reminded him of before – when she had been lifeless. He did not like the look, he did not like it one bit. But he knew better: he saw it glistening in her eyes, a faint spark. _His Christine_. Oh, she was nervous. He could see it now. She was no doubt wondering what tactic he may try, how he would approach. Well, he really didn't know. Only what she had done. How to make her smile? To break her? And then it was clear! Oh yes, very clear. He smirked again. Her eyes flashed. She knew she was in trouble now.

"Honey," he said as he slithered before her, locking her eyes with his own. Yes, uncomfortable – nervous but entertained (not afraid, how refreshing). A perfect combination, "do you love me?" He asked quite simply. She was already struggling! Ah, but she pulled through, brave girl!

"Honey, I love you, but I simply cannot smile." She sounded sad. Part of the ruse: an illusion as much as his self-confidence from before. Make herself believe she truly was sad and perhaps she would not respond gleefully.

"Honey," he continued, tilting his head, "do you love me?" The second one came much easier than her last.

"Honey, I love you, but I simply _cannot_ smile." Now she was playing the part! _No, of course you cannot smile, child – who knows what disconsolation you've woven for yourself in that clever mind of yours? Yes, Christine, embrace your tragedy; make it your own.  
_

" _Honey,_ " his voice wrapped around her, enveloped her – overcoming her, "do you... _love me?_ " And there it was! His secret weapon! He could not touch her, no, that was _against the rules_. But his hand could hover menacingly above her knee. _Crack! There goes that façade, darling, to pieces; pieces; pieces._

"Honey, I..." His hand inched closer and she yelped before glaring at him, "Erik, you aren't allowed to tickle me!"

"I am aware of the rules: say the line, Christine." But there his hand was, lingering, just waiting to strike! It was like a viper, primed for attack.

"Honey..." And then he made a motion in the air, as if he were about to squeeze and she _lost_ it! Giggles and shrieks abound! She was lying on the floor, shaking her head.

"Oh, please don't tickle me!" She begged through laughter which he could not help but join in – her heart fluttered at the sound of that melodious, heartening sound.

"Silly girl," he chided, leaning over if her if just a little, "didn't I tell you I'd do it when you _least_ expect?"

"You tricked me."

"I merely put you in suspense."

"That's still a trick."

"That, my dear, is the _game_."

"Oh, alright! Do you want to try again?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I would much rather swallow an active beehive then call you _honey_ again."

"Oh, alright, what would you prefer then? _Dear? Darling?_ "

"I would _prefer_ to get up off the floor and serve you dinner."

"But I don't _want_ dinner."

"What! What is that mine ears do hear? I do believe that is a _rumble_." And as soon as he'd said it, there was a low growl emitting from her tummy, "You sound as if you are nearing the border of _starvation_! You are fooling _no one_ , Christine, especially not your ever-devoted husband: come along, your meal awaits."

"Erik! I _know_ that didn't come from me!" But she did not resist him as he helped her up. She _was_ feeling a bit hungry – and the pleasant scent of braised halibut and a hearty _potage_ was temptingly wafting from the kitchen.

"Well, that noise certainly isn't coming from the direction of _my_ stomach. My word!" There was another growl, much louder and determined, "Who knew my little wife could produce such indelicate sounds!"

"I think I'd be able to _feel_ that! I'm telling you, Erik, that sound is not coming from me, you are a great big liar!"

" _Liar_!" He repeated incredulously, "What venom! There's nothing to be ashamed of, Christine, you are only hungry." He assured her and she narrowed her eyes, "And what do you mean you cannot feel it? It is practically shaking the entirety of the opera house with each resounding gurgle. Are you teasing me, dear?"

"Teasing _you_? You're teasing me! You're making those noises, Erik, I know it!" There was another and Erik held out his arms as he pretended to be jerked back by some force.

"I rather fear that anymore hesitancy to appease the beast lurking within that belly of yours will result in the whole place crumbling to ruin!"

"Erik, you're being ridiculous."

"Christine, I am acting for the sake of hundreds of lives. Come, you must eat."

" _Fine,_ " She gave in, following him to the dining table, "can we play again after we eat?"

He moved her chair for her, scooting her in and then inclining his head, "If my wife so desires."

"She does."

"But only for a little while, I thought we might have an early morning amble tomorrow and we can't do that if you are half asleep."

"Oh!" She clapped her hands together, "A walk?"

"If you would like."

"I would!"

"In that case, while I will keep my word and oblige a few more rounds tonight, you are to go to bed immediately and with _no_ fuss. Is it a deal?"

"It's a deal!"

"Splendid!" He chirped before disappearing off into the kitchen to retrieve her meal. Her stomach made a real grumble as her food was being set before her and Erik looked impossibly smug as he poured the both of them a glass of Chardonnay _._

"Don't you say a word."

"A word." He jested and she rolled her eyes.

"You know what I meant."

"Well, certainly – I know everything."

"Mm, I'm sure." She pursed her lips, glad when he finally sat down so she could begin to eat, "Did you have fun with the game?" She asked after taking some time to enjoy a couple of spoonfuls of the bisque and then to finish on the potatoes.

"It was unlike anything I have _ever_ experienced."

" _Erik._ "

"How I adore my name upon your lips, Christine!"

She sighed, "Did you or did you not?"

"To be the reason behind any of your smiles is to know ecstasy."

She blushed with a soft 'thank you.'

"Not at all. _Velouté_?"

"Yes, please. So, you _did_ have a good time?"

"Surely you know that any time spent with you is as delightful as time spent roaming the fields of Elysian."

"But the _game_ , Erik?"

"Nonsensical. If it were anybody else but you, it would be a nightmare rather than a form of entertainment."

"That terrible?"

"It would be a nightmare for me in the matter that I should have to call someone _other_ than my bride 'honey' – and a nightmare for any poor soul that was appointed with the task of trying to make _me_ smile. And even if they miraculously succeeded, few can handle viewing Death's smirk on the newly deceased, what sort of terror would it be to see a corpse grinning like the living?"

"We're _eating_ , Erik. Let's not talk about death and corpses."

"You cannot shy away from what is both inevitable, ubiquitous, and, essentially, _sitting right beside you_ : but... I concede – such discussion at the dinner table is an atrocious breach of etiquette, forgive me."

"I do," she took a sip of the white wine, "– and your grin isn't a terror."

"Might I reiterate: if it were anybody else _but you_."

"You have a lovely smile when you are really smiling," she continued, "and an even more agreeable laugh when it is happy."

He sounded a sarcastic 'hah hah' before stating, "Ever the comedian, I see."

"I mean it."

"You shall never cease to astound me, Christine."

She smiled, "Good." They were quiet once more while Christine ate and Erik moved his food in various locations while he grew distracted with her. He had gotten much better since the beginning of their eating arrangements, but she would still find him staring at her in amazement – studying her every move, delighting in her every nuance. He often liked to conduct small experiments with the food – oh, nothing malevolent, not to worry! He would only choose different combinations of things and watch which ones she chose to eat first. It would go from her least favourite to the most: he enjoyed picking amongst _those_ favourites and then seeing what she would ultimately decide upon. Her reactions never failed to entertain either – always excited; pleased; satisfied. And then sometimes when she would finish, she'd make a comical groan and complain about having eaten too much and then praise him endlessly. He liked the praise.

"Erik..." He blinked, he had been observing those hands of hers, so fine and elegant, cutting a small piece of the fish with ease.

"Yes?"

She smirked, setting her palms on the table and meeting his eyes, "Do you love me?"

"Oh, Christine..." he said, daring to let his long, spindly fingers timidly brush against her daintier ones, " _How your Erik loves you_."

She took his hand then, rubbing the top of it with her other before telling him, "And how _I_ love _my Erik_." The corners of his lips turned up in a subtle smile that matched the dreamy look in his eyes, "A lovely smile, indeed." She said before going back to her halibut, "Now stop watching me and actually eat _something_ of this perfect meal." He blinked again and let out a quiet apology before following her command. But those amber eyes would never cease falling on her – caressing those beautiful waves, the slope of her perfect, little nose, her eyes as they fluttered closed in delight. _Ah,_ he noticed, _bisque for last._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was just pure, fluffy fun and I enjoyed every bit of it - I hope you did, too! Alas, I tried to find out how old 'Honey, Do You Love Me' is, but I couldn't, and as greatly as I should like to be historically accurate... I didn't care because I wanted so badly for them to play 'Honey, Do You Love Me.' I loved having them play with one another, having Erik tease her mercilessly and use his ventriloquism to cause trouble, also HEADCANON IS COOL. Ah, and getting to talk about Daddy Daae was lovely as well! In my mind's eye I see him as being a bit of a Bishop Myriel character (the Bishop from Les Miserables); cute and short and loving and loveable.
> 
> Unfortunately, I am also extremely hungry now because braised halibut, lobster bisque, and scalloped potatoes sounds like veritable heaven. Yeesh, Erik, you'll spoil Christine rotten. Probably his goal though.
> 
> Opéra comique (n.) a genre of French opera that contains spoken dialogue and arias. Associated with the Paris theatre of the same name, the Opéra-Comique, opéra comique is not always comic or light in nature; Carmen, perhaps the most famous opéra comique, is a tragedy.
> 
> Lakmé (n.) an opera in three acts by Léo Delibes to a French libretto by Edmond Gondinet and Philippe Gille. The score, written in 1881–1882, was first performed on 14 April 1883 by the Opéra Comique at the Salle Favart in Paris. It stars a coloratura soprano in the role of the tragic and romantic Brahmin high priestess, Lakmé, who [spoilers] falls in forbidden love with a British soldier who is torn between his duty to his country and his love for her. When it comes down to it, he refuses her love (even after she has saved him from her father's wrath) and so (unwilling to live in dishonour) she eats a poisonous leaf that will kill her, when he learns that she has done this, he accepts her love - but it is too late and she dies.


End file.
